A  MODERN  INSTANCE 


A    NOVEL 


BY 


WILLIAM   D.   HCWELLS 

AUTHOR  OF   "THE   RISE  OF  SILAS  LAPHAM,"    '«  THE  MINISTERS  CHARG8 

15  DOCTOR  RREHN'S  PRACTICE."  ETC. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    lS8l    AND    IQOQ,   BY  W.    D.   HOWELLS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


THIRTY-SEVENTH  IMPRESSION,  JUNE,  1 934 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.      M 


THE  village  stood  on  a  wide  plain,  and  around  it 
rose  the  mountains.  They  were  green  to  their  tops 
in  summer,  and  in  winter  white  through  their  serried 
pines  and  drifting  mists,  but  at  every  season  serious 
and  beautiful,  furrowed  with  hollow  shadows,  and 
taking  the  light  on  masses  and  stretches  of  iron-gray 
crag.  The  river  swam  through  the  plain  in  long 
curves,  and  slipped  away  at  last  through  an  unseen 
pass  to  the  southward,  tracing  a  score  of  miles  in  its 
course  over  a  space  that  measured  but  three  or  four. 
The  plain  was  very  fertile,  and  its  features,  if  few 
and  of  purely  utilitarian  beauty,  had  a  rich  luxu- 
riance, and  there  was  a  tropical  riot  of  vegetation 
when  the  sun  of  July  beat  on  those  northern  fields. 
They  waved  with  corn  and  oats  to  the  feet  of  the 
mountains,  and  the  potatoes  covered  a  vast  acreage 
with  the  lines  of  their  intense,  coarse  green ;  the 
meadows  were  deep  with  English  grass  to  the  banks 
of  the  river,  that,  doubling  and  returning  upon  itself, 
still  marked  its  way  with  a  dense  fringe  of  alders 
and  white  birches. 

But  winter  was  full  half  the  year.  The  snow  began 
at  Thanksgiving,  and  fell  snow  upon  snow  till  Fast 
Day,  thawing  between  the  storms,  and  packing  harder 


4  A   MODERN  INSTANCE. 

and  harder  against  the  break-up  in  the  spring,  when 
it  covered  the  ground  in  solid  levels  three  feet  high, 
and  lay  heaped  in  drifts,  that  defied  the  sun  far  into 
May.  When  it  did  not  snow,  the  weather  was  keenly 
clear,  and  commonly  very  still.  Then  the  landscape 
at  noon  had  a  stereoscopic  glister  under  the  high  sun 
that  burned  in  a  heaven  without  a  cloud,  and  at  set- 
ting stained  the  sky  and  the  white  waste  with  freez- 
ing pink  and  violet.  On  such  days  the  farmers  and 
lumbermen  came  in  to  the  village  stores,  and  made  a 
stiff  and  feeble  stir  about  their  doorways,  and  the 
school  children  gave  the  street  a  little  life  and  color, 
as  they  went  to  and  from  the  Academy  in  their  red 
and  blue  woollens.  Four  times  a  day  the  mill,  the 
shrill  wheeze  o."  whose  saws  had  become  part  of  the 
habitual  silenc^,  blew  its  whistle  for  the  hands  to 
begin  and  leave  off  work,  in  blasts  that  seemed  to 
shatter  themselves  against  the  thin  air.  But  other- 
wise an  arctic  quiet  prevailed. 

Behind  the  black  boles  of  the  elms  that  swept  the 
vista  of  the  street  with  the  fine  gray  tracery  of  their 
boughs,  stood  the  houses,  deep-sunken  in  the  accumu- 
lating drifts,  through  which  each  householder  kept  a 
path  cut  from  his  doorway  to  the  road,  white  and 
clean  as  if  hewn  out  of  marble.  Some  cross  streets 
straggled  away  east  and  west  with  the  poorer  dwell- 
ings ;  but  this,  that  followed  the  northward  and  south- 
ward reach  of  the  plain,  was  the  main  thoroughfare, 
,.  and  had  its  own  impressiveness,  with  those  square 
white  houses  which  they  build  so  large  in  Northern 
New  England.  They  were  all  kept  in  scrupulous 
repair,  though  here  and  there  the  frost  and  thaw  of 
many  winters  had  heaved  a  fence  out  of  plumb,  and 
threatened  the  poise  of  the  monumental  urns  of 
painted  pine  on  the  gate-posts.  They  had  dark- 
green  blinds,  of  a  color  harmonious  with  that  of  the 
Cunereal  evergreens  in  their  dooryards;  and  they 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  5 

themselves  had  taken  the  tone  of  the  snowy  land- 
scape, as  if  by  the  operation  of  some  such  law  as 
blanches  the  fur-bearing  animals  of  the  North.  They 
seemed  proper  to  its  desolation,  while  some  houses  of 
more  modern  taste,  painted  to  a  warmer  tone,  looked, 
with  their  mansard  roofs  and  jig-sawed  piazzas  and 
balconies,  intrusive  and  alien. 

At  one  end  of  the  street  stood  the  Academy,  with 
its  classic  facade  and  its  belfry ;  midway  was  the  hotel, 
with  the  stores,  the  printing-office,  and  the  churches ; 
and  at  the  other  extreme,  one  of  the  square  white 
mansions  stood  advanced  from  the  rank  of  the  rest, 
at  the  top  of  a  deep-plunging  valley,  defining  itself 
against  the  mountain  beyond  so  sharply  that  it  seemed 
as  if  cut  out  of  its  dark,  wooded  side.  It  was  from 
the  gate  before  this  house,  distinct  in  the  pink  light 
which  the  sunset  had  left,  that,  on  a  Saturday  even- 
ing in  February,  a  cutter,  gay  with  red-lined  robes, 
dashed  away,  and  carne  musically  clashing  down  the 
street  under  the  naked  elms.  For  the  women  who 
sat  with  their  work  at  the  windows  on  either  side  of 
the  way,  hesitating  whether  to  light  their  lamps,  and 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  dead-line  of  the 
outer  cold  for  the  latest  glimmer  of  the  day,  the  pas- 
sage of  this  ill-timed  vehicle  was  a  vexation  little 
short  of  grievous.  Every  movement  on  the  street 
was  precious  to  them,  and,  with  all  the  keenness  of 
their  starved  curiosity,  these  captives  of  the  winter 
could  not  make  out  the  people  in  the  cutter.  After- 
ward it  was  a  mortification  to  them  that  they  should 
not  have  thought  at  once  of  Bartley  Hubbard  and 
Marcia  Gaylord.  They  had  seen  him  go  up  toward 
Squire  Gaylord's  house  half  an  hour  before,  and  they 
now  blamed  themselves  for  not  reflecting  that  of 
course  he  was  going  to  take  Marcia  over  to  the 
church  sociable  at  Lower  Equity.  Their  identity 
being  established,  other  little  proofs  of  it  reproached 


6  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

the  inquirers;  but  these  perturbed  spirits  were  at 
peace,  and  the  lamps  were  out  in  the  houses  (where 
the  smell  of  rats  in  the  wainscot  and  of  potatoes  in 
the  cellar  strengthened  with  the  growing  night),  when 
Bartley  and  Marcia  drove  back  through  the  moonlit 
silence  to  her  father's  door.  Here,  too,  the  windows 
were  all  dark,  except  for  the  light  that  sparely  glim- 
mered through  the  parlor  blinds ;  and  the  young  man 
slackened  the  pace  of  his  horse,  as  if  to  st5l  the 
bells,  some  distance  away  from  the  gate. 

The  girl  took  the  hand  he  offered  her  when  he 
dismounted  at  the  gate,  and,  as  she  jumped  from  the 
cutter,  "  Won't  you  come  in  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  guess  I  can  blanket  my  horse  and  stand  him 
under  the  wood-shed,'*  answered  the  young  man,  going 
around  to  the  animal's  head  and  leading  him  away. 

When  he  returned  to  the  door  the  girl  opened  it, 
as  if  she  had  been  listening  for  his  step ;  and  she  now 
stood  holding  it  ajar  for  him  to  enter,  and  throwing 
the  light  upon  the  threshold  from  the  lamp,  which 
she  lifted  high  in  the  other  hand.  The  action  brought 
her  figure  in  relief,  and  revealed  the  outline  of  her 
bust  and  shoulders,  while  the  lamp  flooded  with  light 
the  face  she  turned  to  him,  and  again  averted  for  a 
moment,  as  if  startled  at  some  noise  behind  her.  She 
thus  showed  a  smooth,  low  forehead,  lips  and  cheeks 
deeply  red,  a  softly  rounded  chin  touched  with  a  faint 
dimple,  and  in  turn  a  nose  short  and  aquiline ;  her 
eyes  were  dark,  and  her  dusky  hair  flowed  crinkling 
above  her  fine  black  brows,  and  vanished  down  the 
curve  of  a  lovely  neck.  There  was  a  peculiar  charm  in 
the  form  of  her  upper  lip :  it  was  exquisitely  arched, 
and  at  the  corners  it  projected  a  little  over  the  lower 
lip,  so  that  when  she  smiled  it  gave  a  piquant  sweet- 
ness to  her  mouth,  with  a  certain  demure  innocence 
that  qualified  the  Eoman  pride  of  her  profile.  For 
the  rest,  her  beauty  was  of  the  kind  that  coming  years 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  7 

would  only  ripen  and  enrich ;  at  thirty  she  would  be 
even  handsomer  than  at  twenty,  and  be  all  the  more 
southern  in  her  type  for  the  paling  of  that  northern 
color  in  her  cheeks.  The  young  man  who  looked  up 
at  her  from  the  doorstep  had  a  yellow  mustache, 
shadowing  either  side  of  his  lip  with  a  broad  sweep, 
like  a  bird's  wing ;  his  chin,  deep-cut  below  his  rnoutb, 
failed  to  come  strenuously  forward ;  his  cheeks  were 
filled  to  an  oval  contour,  and  his  face  had  otherwise 
the  regularity  common  to  Americans ;  his  eyes,  a 
clouded  gray,  heavy-lidded  and  long-lashed,  were  his 
most  striking  feature,  and  he  gave  her  beauty  a  delib- 
erate look  from  them  as  he  lightly  stamped  the  snow 
from  his  feet,  and  pulled  the  seal-skin  gloves  from 
his  long  hands. 

"  Come  in,"  she  whispered,  coloring  with  pleasure 
under  his  gaze ;  and  she  made  haste  to  shut  the  door 
after  him,  with  a  luxurious  impatience  of  the  cold. 
She  led  the  way  into  the  room  from  which  she  had 
come,  and  set  down  the  lamp  on  the  corner  of  the 
piano,  while  he  slipped  off  his  overcoat  and  swung 
it  over  the  end  of  the  sofa.  They  drew  up  chairs  to 
the  stove,  in  which  the  smouldering  fire,  revived  by 
the  opened  draft,  roared  and  snapped.  It  was  mid- 
night, as  the  sharp  strokes  of  a  wooden  clock  declared 
from  the  kitchen,  and  they  were  alone  together,  and 
all  the  other  inmates  of  the  house  were  asleep.  The 
situation,  scarcely  conceivable  to  another  civilization, 
is  so  common  in  ours,  where  youth  commands  its  fate 
and  trusts  solely  to  itself,  that  it  may  be  said  to  be 
characteristic  of  the  New  England  civilization  wher- 
ever it  keeps  its  simplicity.  It  was  not  stolen  or 
clandestine ;  it  would  have  interested  every  one,  but 
would  have  shocked  no  one  in  the  village  if  the 
whole  village  had  known  it ;  all  that  a  girl's  parents 
ordinarily  exacted  was  that  they  should  not  be 
waked  up. 


8  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"Ugh!"  said  the  girl.  "It  seems  as  if  I  never 
should  get  warm."  She  leaned  forward,  and  stretched 
her  hands  toward  the  stove,  and  he  presently  rose 
from  the  rocking-chair  in  which  he  sat,  somewhat 
lower  than  she,  and  lifted  her  sack  to  throw  it  over 
her  shoulders.  But  he  put  it  down  and  took  up  his 
overcoat. 

"Allow  my  coat  the  pleasure,"  he  said,  with  the 
ease  of  a  man  who  is  not  too  far  lost  to  be  really 
flattering. 

"  Much  obliged  to  the  coat,"  she  replied,  shrugging 
herself  into  it  and  pulling  the  collar  close  about  her 
throat.  "  I  wonder  you  did  n't  put  it  on  the  sorrel. 
You  could  have  tied  the  sleeves  around  her  neck." 

"  Shall  I  tie  them  around  yours  ? "  He  leaned 
forward  from  the  low  rocking-chair  into  which  he  had 
sunk  again,  and  made  a  feint  at  what  he  had  proposed. 

But  she  drew  back  with  a  gay  "  No  ! "  and  added : 
"  Some  day,  father  says,  that  sorrel  will  be  the  death 
of  us.  He  says  it 's  a  bad  color  for  a  horse.  They  're 
always  ugly,  and  when  they  get  heated  they  're 
crazy." 

"You  never  seem  to  be  very  much  frightened 
when  you  're  riding  after  the  sorrel,"  said  Bartley. 

"  Oh,  I  've  great  faith  in  your  driving." 

"  Thanks.  But  I  don't  believe  in  this  notion  about 
a  horse  being  vicious  because  he 's  of  a  certain  color. 
If  your  father  did  n't  believe  in  it,  I  should  call  it  a 
superstition ;  but  the  Squire  has  no  superstitions." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  don't 
think  he  likes  to  see  the  new  moon  over  his  left 
shoulder." 

"I  beg  his  pardon,  then,"  returned  Bartley.  "I 
ought  to  have  said  religions :  the  Squire  has  no  re- 
ligions." The  young  fellow  had  a  rich,  caressing  voice, 
and  a  securely  winning  manner  which  comes  from  the 
habit  of  easily  pleasing ;  in  this  charming  tone,  and 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  9 

with  this  delightful  insinuation,  he  often  said  things 
that  hurt ;  but  with  such  a  humorous  glance  from  his 
softly  shaded  eyes  that  people  felt  in  some  sort  flat- 
tered at  being  taken  into  the  joke,  even  while  they 
winced  under  it.  The  girl  seemed  to  wince,  as  if,  in 
spite  of  her  familiarity  with  the  fact,  it  wounded  her 
to  have  her  father's  scepticism  recognized  just  then. 
She  said  nothing,  and  he  added,  "  I  remember  we 
used  to  think  that  a  red-headed  boy  was  worse-tem- 
pered on  account  of  his  hair.  But  I  don't  believe  the 
sorrel-tops,  as  we  called  them,  were  any  more  fiery 
than  the  rest  of  us." 

Marcia  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  then  she  said, 
with  the  vagueness  of  one  not  greatly  interested  by 
the  subject,  "  You  Ve  got  a  sorrel-top  in  your  office 
that 's  fiery  enough,  if  she 's  anything  like  what  she 
used  to  be  when  she  went  to  school." 

"  Hannah  Morrison  ? " 

«  Yes." 

"  Oh,  she  is  n't  so  bad.  She  's  pretty  lively,  but 
she  's  very  eager  to  learn  the  business,  and  I  guess  we 
shall  get  along.  I  think  she  wants  to  please  me." 

"  Does  she  !  But  she  must  be  going  on  seventeen 
now." 

"  I  dare  say,"  answered  the  young  man,  carelessly, 
but  with  perfect  intelligence.  "  She  's  good-looking 
in  her  way,  too." 

"  Oh  !     Then  you  admire  red  hair  ?  " 

He  perceived  the  anxiety  that  the  girl's  pride 
could  not  keep  out  of  her  tone,  but  he  answered  in- 
differently, "  I  'm  a  little  too  near  that  color  myself. 
I  hear  that  red  hair  's  coming  into  fashion,  but  I  guess 
it 's  natural  I  should  prefer  black." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  crushed  the  vel- 
vet collar  of  his  coat  under  her  neck  in  lifting  he' 
head  to  stare  at  the  high-hung  mezzotints  and  family 
photographs  on  the  walls,  while  a  flattered  smile 


10  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

parted  her  lips,  and  there  was  a  little  thrill  of  joy  in 
her  voice.  "  I  presume  we  must  be  a  good  deal  be- 
hind the  age  in  everything  at  Equity." 

"  Well,  you  know  my  opinion  of  Equity,"  returned 
the  young  man.  "  If  I  did  n't  have  you  here  to  free 
my  mind  to  once  in  a  while,  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  do." 

She  was  so  proud  to  be  in  the  secret  of  his  discon- 
tent with  the  narrow  world  of  Equity  that  she 
tempted  him  to  disparage  it  further  by  pretending  to 
identify  herself  with  it.  "  I  don't  see  why  you  abuse 
Equity  to  me.  I  've  never  been  anywhere  else,  except 
those  two  winters  at  school.  You  'd  better  look  out : 
I  might  expose  you,"  she  threatened,  fondly. 

"  I  'm  not  afraid.  Those  two  winters  make  a  great 
difference.  You  saw  girls  from  other  places,  —  from 
Augusta,  and  Bangor,  and  Bath." 

"  Well,  I  could  n't  see  how  they  were  so  very  dif- 
ferent from  Equity  girls." 

"  I  dare  say  they  could  n't,  either,  if  they  judged 
from  you." 

She  leaned  forward  again,  and  begged  for  more 
flattery  from  him  with  her  happy  eyes.  "  Why,  what 
does  make  me  so  different  from  all  the  rest  ?  I  should 
really  like  to  know." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  expect  me  to  tell  you  to  your 
face ! " 

"  Yes,  to  my  face  !  I  don't  believe  it 's  anything 
complimentary." 

"  No,  it 's  nothing  that  you  deserve  any  credit  for." 

"  Pshaw  ! "  cried  the  girl.  "  I  know  you  're  only 
talking  to  make  fun  of  me.  How  do  I  know  but  you 
make  fun  of  me  to  other  girls,  just  as  you  do  of  them 
to  me  ?  Everybody  says  you  're  sarcastic." 

"  Have  I  ever  been  sarcastic  with  you  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  would  n't  stand  it." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  she  admired  the  ease  with 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  11 

which  he  now  turned  from  her,  and  took  one  "book 
after  another  from  the  table  at  his  elbow,  saying  some 
words  of  ridicule  about  each.  It  gave  her  a  still 
deeper  sense  of  his  intellectual  command  when  he 
finally  discriminated,  and  began  to  read  out  a  poem 
with  studied  elocutionary  effects.  He  read  in  a  low 
tone,  but  at  last  some  responsive  noises  came  from 
the  room  overhead ;  he  closed  the  book,  and  threw 
himself  into  an  attitude  of  deprecation,  with  his  eyes 
cast  up  to  the  ceiling. 

"  Chicago,"  he  said,  laying  the  book  on  the  table 
and  taking  his  knee  between  his  hands,  while  he 
dazzled  her  by  speaking  from  the  abstraction  ot  one 
who  has  carried  on  a  train  of  thought  quite  different 
from  that  on  which  he  seemed  to  be  intent,  —  "  Chi- 
cago is  the  place  for  me.  I  don't  think  I  can  stand 
Equity  much  longer.  You  know  that  chum  of  mine 
I  told  you  about ;  he  's  written  to  me  to  come  out 
there  and  go  into  the  law  with  him  at  once." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  ? "  the  girl  forced  herself  to 
ask. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  not  ready  yet.  Should  you  write  to  me 
if  I  went  to  Chicago  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  you  'd  find  my  letters  very  interest- 
ing. You  would  n't  want  any  news  from  Equity." 

"  Your  letters  would  n't  be  interesting  if  you  gave 
me  the  Equity  news ;  but  they  would  if  you  left  it 
out.  Then  you  'd  have  to  write  about  yourself." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  that  would  interest  anybody." 

"  Well,  I  feel  almost  like  going  out  to  Chicago  to 
see." 

"  But  I  have  n't  promised  to  write  yet,"  said  the 
girl,  laughing  for  joy  in  his  humor. 

"  I  shall  have  to  stay  in  Equity  till  you  do,  then. 
Better  promise  at  once." 

"  Would  n't  that  be  too  much  like  marrying  a  man 
to  get  rid  of  him  ? " 


12  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  I  don't  think  that 's  always  such  a  bad  plan  — 
for  the  man."  He  waited  for  her  to  speak ;  but  she 
had  gone  the  length  of  her  tether  in  this  direction. 
"Byron  says, — 

'  Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart, — 
'Tis  woman's  whole  existence.' 

Do  you  believe  that  ?  "  He  dwelt  upon  her  with  his 
free  look,  in  the  happy  embarrassment  with  which  she 
let  her  head  droop. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  murmured.  "  I  don't  know 
anything  about  a  man's  life." 

"  It  was  the  woman's  I  was  asking  about." 

"  I  don't  think  I  'in  competent  to  answer." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  then,  I  think  Byron  was 
mistaken.  My  experience  is,  that,  when  a  man  is  in 
love,  there  's  nothing  else  of  him.  That 's  the  reason 
1  've  kept  out  of  it  altogether  of  late  years.  My  ad- 
vice is,  don't  fall  in  love :  it  takes  too  much  time." 
They  both  laughed  at  this.  "  But  about  correspond- 
ing, now  ;  you  have  n't  said  whether  you  would  write 
to  me,  or  not.  Will  you  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  wait  and  see  ?  "  she  asked,  slanting  a 
look  at  him,  which  she  could  not  keep  from  being  fond. 

"  No,  no.  Unless  you  wrote  to  me  I  could  n't  go 
to  Chicago." 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  promise,  then,  at  once." 

"  You  mean  that  you  wish  me  to  go." 

"  You  said  that  you  were  going.  You  ought  n't  to 
let  anything  stand  in  the  way  of  your  doing  the  best 
you  can  for  yourself." 

"  But  you  would  miss  me  a  little,  would  n't  you  ? 
You  would  try  to  miss  me,  now  and  then  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  are  here  pretty  often.  I  don't  think  I 
should  have  much  difficulty  in  missing  you." 

"  Thanks,  thanks !  I  can  go  with  a  light  hearty 
now.  Good  by."  He  made  a  pretence  of  rising. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  13 

"  What !   Are  you  going  at  once  ? " 

"  Yes,  this  very  night,  —  or  to-morrow.  Or  no,  I 
can't  go  to-morrow.  There  's  something  I  was  going 
bo  do  to-morrow." 

"  Perhaps  go  to  church." 

"  Oh,  that  of  course.  But  it  was  in  the  afternoon. 
Stop !  I  have  it !  I  want  you  to  go  sleigh-riding 
with  me  in  the  afternoon." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  Marcia  began. 

"  But  I  do,"  said  the  young  man.  "  Hold  on  :  I  '11 
put  my  request  in  writing."  He  opened  her  port- 
folio, which  lay  on  the  table.  "What  elegant  sta- 
tionery !  May  I  use  some  of  this  elegant  stationery  ? 
The  letter  is  to  a  lady,  —  to  open  a  correspondence. 
May  I  ? "  She  laughed  her  assent.  "  How  ought  I  to 
begin  ?  Dearest  Miss  Marcia,  or  just  Dear  Marcia : 
which  is  better  ? " 

"  You  had  better  not  put  either  —  " 

"  But  I  must.  You  're  one  or  the  other,  you  know. 
You  're  dear  — i  to  your  family,  —  and  you  're  Marcia  : 
you  can't  deny  it.  The  only  question  is  whether 
you  're  the  dearest  of  all  the  Miss  Marcias.  I  may 
be  mistaken,  you  know.  We  '11  err  on  the  safe  side  : 
Dear  Marcia : "  He  wrote  it  down.  "  That  looks 
well,  and  it  reads  well.  It  looks  very  natural,  and  it 
reads  like  poetry,  —  blank  verse  ;  there  's  no  rhyme 
for  it  that  I  can  remember.  Dear  Marcia  :  Will  you 
go  sleigh-riding  with  me  to-morrow  afternoon,  at  two 
o'clock  sharp  ?  Yours  —  yours  ?  sincerely,  or  cor- 
dially, or  affectionately,  or  what?  The  'dear  Marcia' 
seems  to  call  for  something  out  of  the  common.  I 
think  it  had  better  be  affectionately."  He  suggested 
it  with  ironical  gravity. 

"  And  /  think  it  had  better  be  *  truly,'  "  protested 
the  girl. 

" '  Truly '  it  shall  be,  then.  Your  word  is  law,  - — 
statute  in  such  case  made  and  provided."  He  wrote, 


14  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  With  unutterable  devotion,  yours  truly,  Bartley  J. 
Hubbard,"  and  read  it  aloud. 

She  leaned  forward,  and  lightly  caught  it  away 
from  him,  and  made  a  feint  of  tearing  it.  He  seized 
her  hands.  "  Mr.  Hubbard ! "  she  cried,  in  undertone. 
"  Let  me  go,  please." 

"  On  two  conditions,  —  promise  not  to  tear  up  my 
letter,  and  promise  to  answer  it  in  writing." 

She  hesitated  long,  letting  him  hold  her  wrists. 
At  last  she  said,  "  Well,"  and  he  released  her  wrists, 
on  whose  whiteness  his  clasp  left  red  circles.  She 
wrote  a  single  word  on  the  paper,  and  pushed  it  across 
the  table  to  him.  He  rose  with  it,  and  went  around 
to  her  side. 

"  This  is  very  nice.  But  you  have  n't  spelled  it 
correctly.  Anybody  would  say  this  was  No,  to  look 
at  it ;  and  you  meant  to  write  Yes.  Take  the  pencil 
in  your  hand,  Miss  Gaylord,  and  I  will  steady  your 
trembling  nerves,  so  that  you  can  form  the  characters. 
Stop  !  At  the  slightest  resistance  on  your  part,  I  will 
call  out  and  alarm  the  house;  or  I  will — ."  He 
put  the  pencil  into  her  fingers,  and  took  her  soft  fist 
into  his,  and  changed  the  word,  while  she  submitted, 
helpless  with  her  smothered  laughter.  "Now  the 
address.  Dear  —  " 

"  No,  no  ! "  she  protested. 

"  Yes,  yes !  Dear  Mr.  Hubbard.  There,  that  will 
do.  Now  the  signature.  Yours  —  " 

"  I  won't  write  that.     I  won't,  indeed ! " 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will.  You  only  think  you  won't. 
Yours  gratefully,  Marcia  Gaylord.  That 's  right.  The 
Gaylord  is  not  very  legible,  on  account  of  a  slight 
tremor  in  the  writer's  arm,  resulting  from  a  con- 
strained posture,  perhaps.  Thanks,  Miss  Gaylord.  I 
will  be  here  promptly  at  the  hour  indicated  —  " 

The  noises  renewed  themselves  overhead,  —  some 
one  seemed  to  be  moving  about.  Hubbard  laid  his 


A  MODEKN  INSTANCE.  15 

hand  on  that  of  the  girl,  still  resting  on  the  table, 
and  grasped  it  in  burlesque  alarm ;  she  could  scarcely 
stifle  her  mirth.  He  released  her  hanu,  and,  reaching 
his  chair  with  a  theatrical  stride,  sat  there  cowering 
till  the  noises  ceased.  Then  he  began  to  speak  so- 
berly, in  a  low  voice.  He  spoke  of  himself;  but  in 
application  of  a  lecture  which  they  had  lately  xieard, 
so  that  he  seemed  to  be  speaking  of  the  lecture.  It 
was  on  the  formation  of  character,  and  he  told  of  thd 
processes  by  which  he  had  formed  his  own  character. 
They  appeared  very  wonderful  to  her,  and  she  mar- 
velled at  the  ease  with  which  he  dismissed  the  frivol- 
ity of  his  recent  mood,  and  was  now  all  seriousness. 
When  he  came  to  speak  of  the  influence  of  others 
upon  him,  she  almost  trembled  with  the  intensity  of 
her  interest.  "  But  of  all  the  women  I  have  known, 
Marcia,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  you  have  had  the  strong- 
est influence  upon  me.  I  believe  you  could  make 
me  do  anything ;  but  you  have  always  influenced  me 
for  good ;  your  influence  upon  me  has  been  ennobling 
and  elevating." 

She  wished  to  refuse  his  praise ;  but  her  heart, 
throbbed  for  bliss  and  pride  in  it;  her  voice  dis- 
solved on  her  lips.  They  sat  in  silence ;  and  he  took 
in  his  the  hand  that  she  let  hang  over  the  side  of  her 
chair.  The  lamp  began  to  burn  low,  and  she  found 
words  to  say,  "  I  had  better  get  another,"  but  she  did 
not  move. 

"  No,  don't,"  he  said ;  "  I  must  be  going,  too. 
Look  at  the  wick,  there,  Marcia ;  it  scarcely  reaches 
the  oil.  In  a  little  while  it  will  not  reach  it,  and  the 
flame  will  die  out.  That  is  the  way  the  ambition 
to  be  good  and  great  will  die  out  of  me,  when  my 
life  no  longer  draws  its  inspiration  from  your  in- 
fluence." 

This  figure  took  her  imagination ;  it  seemed  to  her 
very  beautiful;  and  his  praise  tumbled  her  more  and 
more. 


16  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"Good  night,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  sad  voice.  He 
gave  her  hand  a  last  pressure,  and  rose  to  put  on  his 
coat.  Her  admiration  of  his  words,  her  happiness  in 
his  flattery,  filled  her  brain  like  wine.  She  moved 
dizzily  as  she  took  up  the  lamp  to  light  him  to  the 
door.  "  I  have  tired  you,"  he  said,  tenderly,  and  he 
passed  his  hand  around  her  to  sustain  the  elbow  of 
the  arm  with  which  she  held  the  lamp ;  she  wished 
to  resist,  but  she  could  not  try. 

At  the  door  he  bent  down  his  head  and  kissed  her. 
"  Good  night,  dear  —  friend." 

"  Good  night,"  she  panted ;  and  after  the  door  had 
closed  upon  him,  she  stooped  and  kissed  the  knob  on 
which  his  hand  had  rested. 

As  she  turned,  she  started  to  see  her  father  coming 
down  the  stairs  with  a  candle  in  his  hand.  He  had 
his  black  cravat  tied  around  his  throat,  but  no  collar  • 
otherwise,  he  had  on  the  rusty  black  clothes  in  which 
he  ordinarily  went  about  his  affairs,  —  the  cassimere 
pantaloons,  the  satin  vest,  and  the  dress-coat  which 
old-fashioned  country  lawyers  still  wore  ten  years 
ago,  in  preference  to  a  frock  or  sack.  He  stopped  on 
one  of  the  lower  steps,  and  looked  sharply  down  into 
her  uplifted  face,  and,  as  they  stood  confronted,  their 
consanguinity  came  out  in  vivid  resemblances  and 
contrasts ;  his  high,  hawk-like  profile  was  translated 
into  the  fine  aquiline  outline  of  hers ;  the  harsh  rings 
of  black  hair,  now  grizzled  with  age,  which  clustered 
tightly  over  his  head,  except  where  they  had  re-, 
treated  from  his  deeply  seamed  and  wrinkled  fore-i 
ihead,  were  the  crinkled  flow  above  her  smooth  white! 
brow ;  and  the  line  of  the  bristly  tufts  that  overhung 
his  eyes  was  the  same  as  that  of  the  low  arches  above 
hers.  Her  complexion  was  from  her  mother;  his 
skin  was  dusky  yellow;  but  they  had  the  same 
mouth,  and  hers  showed  how  sweet  his  mouth  must 
have  been  in  his  youth.  His  eyes,  deep  sunk  in  their 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  17 

cavernous  sockets,  had  rekindled  their  dark  fires  in 
hers ;  his  whole  visage,  softened  to  her  sex  and  girl- 
ish years,  looked  up  at  him  in  his  daughter's  face. 

"  Why,  father !     Did  we  wake  you  ? " 

"  No.  I  had  n't  been  asleep  at  all.  I  was  coming 
down  to  read.  But  it's  time  you  were  in  bed, 
Marcia." 

"  Yes,  I  'm  going,  now.  There 's  a  good  fire  in  the 
parlor  stove." 

The  old  man  descended  the  remaining  steps,  but 
turned  at  the  parlor  door,  and  looked  again  at  his 
daughter  with  a  glance  that  arrested  her,  with  her 
foot  on  the  lowest  stair. 

"  Marcia,"  he  asked,  grimly,  "  are  you  engaged  to 
Bartley  Hubbard  ? " 

The  blood  flashed  up  from  her  heart  into  her  face 
like  fire,  and  then,  as  suddenly,  fell  back  again,  and 
left  her  white.  She  let  her  head  droop  and  turn,  till 
her  eyes  were  wholly  averted  from  him,  and  she  did 
not  speak.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  she 
went  upstairs  to  her  own  room ;  in  her  shame,  she 
seemed  to  herself  to  crawl  thither,  with  her  father's 
glance  burning  upon  her. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 


n. 


BARTLEY  HUBBARD  drove  his  sorrel  colt  back  to 
the  hotel  stable  through  the  moonlight,  and  woke  up 
the  hostler,  asleep  behind  the  counter,  on  a  bunk 
covered  with  buffalo-robes.  The  half-grown  boy  did 
not  wake  easily;  he  conceived  of  the  affair  as  a  joke, 
and  bade  Hartley  quit  his  fooling,  till  the  young  man 
took  him  by  his  collar,  and  stood  him  on  his  feet. 
Then  he  fumbled  about  the  button  of  the  lamp,  turned 
low  and  smelling  rankly,  and  lit  his  lantern,  which 
contributed  a  rival  stench  to  the  choking  air.  He 
kicked  together  the  embers  that  smouldered  on  the 
hearth  of  the  Franklin  stove,  sitting  down  before  it 
for  his  greater  convenience,  and,  having  put  a  fresh 
pine-root  on  the  fire,  fell  into  a  doze,  with  his  lantern 
in  his  hand.  "  Look  here,  young  man  ! "  said  Bartley, 
shaking  him  by  the  shoulder,  "  you  had  better  go  out 
and  put  that  colt  up,  and  leave  this  sleeping  before 
the  fire  to  me." 

"Guess  the  colt  can  wait  awhile,"  grumbled  the 
boy ;  but  he  went  out,  all  bhe  same,  and  Bartley,  look- 
ing through  the  window,  saw  his  lantern  wavering,  a 
yellow  blot  in  the  white  moonshine,  toward  the  stable. 
He  sat  down  in  the  hostler's  chair,  and,  in  his  turn, 
kicked  the  pine-root  with  the  heel  of  his  shoe,  and 
looked  about  the  room.  He  had  had,  as  he  would 
have  said,  a  grand  good  time ;  but  it  had  left  him 
hungry,  and  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with 
the  chairs  huddled  around  it,  was  suggestive,  though 
he  knew  that  it  had  been  barrenly  put  there  for  the 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  19 

convenience  of  the  landlord's  friends,  who  came  every 
night  to  play  whist  with  him,  arid  that  nothing  to  eat 
or  drink  had  ever  been  set  out  on  it  to  interrupt  the 
austere  interest  of  the  game.  It  was  long  since  there 
had  been  anything  on  the  shelves  behind  the  coun- 
ter more  cheerful  than  corn-balls  and  fancy  crackers 
for  the  children  of  the  summer  boarders ;  these  dain- 
ties being  out  of  season,  the  jars  now  stood  there 
empty.  The  young  man  waited  in  a  hungry  reverie, 
in  which  it  appeared  to  him  that  he  was  undergoing 
unmerited  suffering,  till  the  stable-boy  came  back,  now 
wide  awake,  and  disposed  to  let  the  house  share  his  vi- 
gils, as  he  stamped  over  the  floor  in  his  heavy  boots. 

"Andy,"  said  Bartley,  in  a  pathetic  tone  of  injury, 
"  can't  you  scare  me  up  something  to  eat  ? " 

"  There  aint  anything  in  the  buttery  but  meat-pie," 
said  the  boy. 

He  meant  mince-pie,  as  Hubbard  knew,  and  not  a 
pasty  of  meat ;  and  the  hungry  man  hesitated.  "  Well, 
letch  it,"  he  said,  finally.  "  I  guess  we  can  warm  it 
up  a  little  by  the  coals  here." 

He  had  not  been  so  long  out  of  college  but  the  idea 
of  this  irregular  supper,  when  he  had  once  formed  it, 
began  to  have  its  fascination.  He  took  up  the  broad 
fire-shovel,  and,  by  the  time  the  boy  had  shuffled  to 
and  from  the  pantry  beyond  the  dining-room,  Bartley 
had  cleaned  the  shovel  with  a  piece  of  newspaper 
and  was  already  heating  it  by  the  embers  which  he 
had  raked  out  from  under  the  pine-root.  The  boy 
silently  transferred  the  half-pie  he  had  brought  from 
its  plate  to  the  shovel.  He  pulled  up  a  chair  and  sat 
down  to  watch  it.  The  pie  began  to  steam  and  send 
out  a  savory  odor ;  he  himself,  in  thawing,  emitted  a 
stronger  and  stronger  smell  of  stable.  He  was  not 
without  his  disdain  for  the  palate  which  must  have 
its  mince-pie  warm  at  midnight,  —  nor  without  his 
respect  for  it,  either.  This  fastidious  taste  must  be 


20  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

part  of  the  splendor  which  showed  itself  in  Mr. 
Hubbard's  city-cut  clothes,  and  in  his  neck-scarfs  and 
the  perfection  of  his  finger-nails  and  mustache.  The 
boy  had  felt  the  original  impression  of  these  fact? 
deepened  rather  than  effaced  by  custom;  they  were 
for  every  day,  and  not,  as  he  had  at  first  conjectured, 
for  some  great  occasion  only. 

"  You  don't  suppose,  Andy,  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  cold  tea  or  coffee  anywhere,  that  we  could  warm 
up  ? "  asked  Bartley,  gazing  thoughtfully  at  the  pie. 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  "  Get  you  some  milk,"  lie 
said ;  and,  after  he  had  let  the  dispiriting  suggestion 
sink  into  the  other's  mind,  he  added,  "  or  some  water." 

"  Oh,  bring  on  the  milk,"  groaned  Bartley,  but  with 
the  relief  that  a  choice  of  evils  affords.  The  boy 
stumped  away  for  it,  and  when  he  came  back  the 
young  man  had  got  his  pie  on  the  plate  again,  and 
had  drawn  his  chair  up  to  the  table.  "  Thanks,"  he 
said,  with  his  mouth  full,  as  the  boy  set  down  the 
goblet  of  milk.  Andy  pulled  his  chair  round  so  as 
to  get  an  unrestricted  view  of  a  man  who  ate  his  pie 
with  his  fork  as  easily  as  another  would  with  a  knife. 
"  That  sister  of  yours  is  a  smart  girl,"  the  young  man 
added,  making  deliberate  progress  with  the  pie. 

The  boy  made  an  inarticulate  sound  of  satisfaction, 
and  resolved  in  his  heart  to  tell  her  what  Mr.  Hub- 
bard  had  said. 

"  She  's  as  smart  as  time,"  continued  Bartley. 

This  was  something  concrete.  The  boy  knew  he 
should  remember  that  comparison.  "  Bring  you  any- 
thing else  ? "  he  asked,  admiring  the  young  man's  skill 
in  getting  the  last  flakes  of  the  crust  on  his  fork.  The 
pie  had  now  vanished. 

"  Why,  there  is  n't  anything  else,  is  there  ? "  Bart- 
ley demanded,  with  the  plaintive  dismay  of  a  man 
who  fears  he  has  flung  away  his  hunger  upon  one 
dish  when  he  might  have  had  something  better. 


A.  MODERN  INSTANCE.  21 

"  Cheese,"  replied  the  boy. 

"Oh!"  said  Bartley.  He  reflected  awhile.  "I 
suppose  I  could  toast  a  piece  on  this  fork.  But  there 
is  n't  any  more  milk." 

The  boy  took  away  the  plate  and  goblet,  and 
brought  them  again  replenished. 

Bartley  contrived  to  get  the  cheese  on  his  fork  and 
rest  it  against  one  of  the  andirons  so  that  it  would 
not  fall  into  the  ashes.  When  it  was  done,  he  ate  it 
as  he  had  eaten  the  pie,  without  offering  to  share  his 
feast  with  the  boy.  "  There  '  "  he  said.  "  Yes,  Andy, 
if  she  keeps  on  as  she 's  been  doing,  she  won't  have 
any  trouble.  She  's  a  bright  girl."  He  stretched  his 
legs  before  the  fire  again,  and  presently  yawned. 

"  Want  your  lamp,  Mr.  Hubbard  ? "  asked  the  boy. 

"  Well,  yes,  Andy,"  the  young  man  consented.  "  I 
suppose  I  may  as  well  go  to  bed." 

But  when  the  boy  brought  his  lamp,  he  still  re- 
mained with  outstretched  legs  in  front  of  the  fire. 
Speaking  of  Hannah  Morrison  made  him  think  of 
Marcia  again,  and  of  the  way  in  which  she  had  spoken 
of  the  girl.  He  lolled  his  head  on  one  side  in  such 
comfort  as  a  young  man  finds  in  the  conviction  that 
a  pretty  girl  is  not  only  fond  of  him,  but  is  instantly 
jealous  of  any  other  girl  whose  name  is  mentioned. 
He  smiled  at  the  flame  in  his  reverie,  and  the  boy 
examined,  with  clandestine  minuteness,  the  set  and 
pattern  of  his  trousers,  with  glances  of  reference  and 
comparison  to  his  own. 

There  were  many  things  about  his  relations  with 
Marcia  Gaylord  which  were  calculated  to  give  Bart- 
ley satisfaction.  She  was,  without  question,  the 
prettiest  girl  in  the  place,  and  she  had  more  style 
than  any  other  girl  began  to  have.  He  liked  to  go 
into  a  room  with  Marcia  Gaylord;  it  was  some 
pleasure.  Marcia  was  a  lady ;  she  had  a  good  edu- 
cation ;  she  had  been  away  two  years  at  school ;  and, 


22  A  MODERN  INSTANCE, 

when  she  came  back  at  the  end  of  the  second  winter, 
he  knew  that  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  him  at 
sight.  He  believed  that  he  could  time  it  to  a  second. 
He  remembered  how  he  had  looked  up  at  her  as  he 
passed,  and  she  had  reddened,  and  tried  to  turn  away 
from  the  window  as  if  she  had  not  seen  him.  Bart- 
ley  was  still  free  as  air ;  but  if  he  could  once  make 
up  his  mind  to  settle  down  in  a  hole  like  Equity,  lie 
could  have  her  by  turning  his  hand.  Of  course  she 
had  her  drawbacks,  like  everybody.  She  was  proud, 
and  she  would  be  jealous ;  but,  with  all  her  pride 
and  her  distance,  she  had  let  him  see  that  she  liked 
him ;  and  with  not  a  word  on  his  part  that  any  one 
could  hold  him  to. 

"  Hollo  ! "  he  cried,  with  a  suddenness  that  startled 
the  boy,  who  had  finished  his  meditation  upon  Bart- 
ley's  trousers,  and  was  now  deeply  dwelling  on  his 
boots.  "  Do  you  like  'em  ?  See  what  sort  of  a  shine 
you  can  give  'em  for  Sunday-go-to-meeting  to-morrow 
morning."  He  put  out  his  hand  and  laid  hold  of  the 
boy's  head,  passing  his  fingers  through  the  thick  red 
hair.  "  Sorrel-top  ! "  he  said,  with  a  grin  of  agreea- 
ble reminiscence.  "They  emptied  all  the  freckles 
they  had  left  into  your  face,  —  did  n't  they,  Andy  ? " 

This  free,  joking  way  of  Bartley's  was  one  of  the 
things  that  made  him  popular ;  he  passed  the  time  of 
day,  and  was  give  and  take  right  along,  as  his  admir- 
ers expressed  it,  from  the  first,  in  a  community  where 
his  smartness  had  that  honor  which  gives  us  more 
smart  men  to  the  square  mile  than  any  other  country 
in  the  world.  The  fact  of  his  smartness  had  been 
affirmed  and  established  in  the  strongest  manner  by 
the  authorities  of  the  college  at  which  he  was  gradu- 
ated, in  answer  to  the  reference  he  made  to  them 
when  negotiating  with  the  committee  in  charge  for 
the  place  he  now  held  as  editor  of  the  Equity  Free 
Press.  The  faculty  spoke  of  the  solidity  and  vari- 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  23 

ety  of  his  acquirements,  and  the  distinction  with 
which  he  had  acquitted  himself  in  every  branch  of 
study  he  had  undertaken.  They  added  that  he  de- 
served the  greater  credit  because  his  early  disadvan- 
tages as  an  orphan,  dependent  on  his  own  exertions 
for  a  livelihood,  had  been  so  great  that  he  had  entered 
college  with  difficulty,  and  with  heavy  conditions. 
This  turned  the  scale  with  a  committee  who  had 
all  been  poor  boys  themselves,  and  justly  feared  the 
encroachments  of  hereditary  aristocracy.  They  per- 
haps had  their  misgivings  when  the  young  man,  in 
his  well-blacked  boots,  his  gray  trousers  neatly 
fitting  over  them,  and  his  diagonal  coat  buttoned 
high  with  one  button,  stood  before  them  with  his 
thumbs  in  his  waistcoat  pockets,  and  looked  down 
over  his  mustache  at  the  floor  with  sentiments  con- 
cerning their  wisdom  which  they  could  not  explore  ; 
they  must  have  resented  the  fashionable  keeping  of 
everything  about  him,  for  Bartley  wore  his  one  suit 
as  if  it  were  but  one  of  many ;  but  when  they  under- 
stood that  he  had  come  by  everything  through  his  own 
unaided  smartness,  they  could  no  longer  hesitate. 
One,  indeed,  still  felt  it  a  duty  to  call  attention  to 
the  fact  that  the  college  authorities  said  nothing  of 
the  young  man's  moral  characteristics  in  a  letter 
dwelling  so  largely  upon  his  intellectual  qualifica- 
tions. The  others  referred  this  point  by  a  silent 
look  to  Squire  Gaylord. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Squire,  "  as  I  ever  heard 
that  a  great  deal  of  morality  was  required  by  a  news- 
paper editor."  The  rest  laughed  at  the  joke,  and  the 
Squire  continued  :  "  But  I  guess  if  he  worked  his 
own  way  through  college,  as  they  say,  that  he  haint 
had  time  to  be  up  to  a  great  deal  of  mischief.  You 
know  it's  for  idle  hands  that  the  Devil  provides, 
doctor." 

"  That 's  true,  as  far  as  it  goes,"  said  the  doctor. 


24  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  But  it  is  n't  the  whole  truth.  The  Devil  provides 
for  some  busy  hands,  too." 

"  There 's  a  good  deal  of  sense  in  that,"  the  Squire 
admitted.  "The  worst  scamps  I  ever  knew  were 
active  fellows.  Still,  industry  is  in  a  man's  favor.  If 
the  faculty  knew  anything  against  this  young  man 
they  would  have  given  us  a  hint  of  it.  I  guess  we 
had  better  take  him ;  we  sha'n't  do  better.  Is  it  a 
vote?" 

The  good  opinion  of  Bartley's  smartness  which 
Squire  Gaylord  had  formed  was  confirmed  some 
months  later  by  the  development  of  the  fact  that  the 
young  man  did  not  regard  his  management  of  the 
Equity  Free  Press  as  a  final  vocation.  The  story 
went  that  he  lounged  into  the  lawyer's  office  one 
Saturday  afternoon  in  October,  and  asked  him  to  let 
him  take  his  Blackstone  into  the  woods  with  him. 
He  came  back  with  it  a  few  hours  later. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  attorney,  sardonically,  "  how 
much  Blackstone  have  you  read  ? " 

"About  forty  pages,"  answered  the  young  man, 
dropping  into  one  of  the  empty  chairs,  and  hanging 
his  leg  over  the  arm. 

The  lawyer  smiled,  and,  opening  the  book,  asked 
half  a  dozen  questions  at  random.  Bartley  answered 
without  changing  his  indifferent  countenance,  or  the 
careless  posture  he  had  fallen  into.  A  sharper  and 
longer  examination  followed;  the  very  language 
seemed  to  have  been  unbrokenly  transferred  to  his 
mind,  and  he  often  gave  the  author's  words  as  well 
as  his  ideas. 

"  Ever  looked  at  this  before  ? "  asked  the  lawyer, 
with  a  keen  glance  at  him  over  his  spectacles. 

"  No,"  said  Bartley,  gaping  as  if  bored,  and  further 
relieving  his  weariness  by  stretching.  He  was  with- 
out deference  for  any  presence ;  and  the  old  lawyer  did 
not  dislike  him  for  this :  he  had  no  deference  himself. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  25 

"  You  think  of  studying  law  ? "  he  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

"  That 's  what  I  came  to  ask  you  about,"  said  Bart- 
ley,  swinging  his  leg. 

The  elder  recurred  to  his  book,  and  put  some  more 
questions.  Then  he  said,  "  Do  you  want  to  study 
with  me  ? " 

"  That 's  about  the  size  of  it." 

He  shut  the  book,  and  pushed  it  on  the  table  to- 
ward the  young  man.  "  Go  ahead.  You  11  get  along 
—  if  you  don't  get  along  too  easily." 

It  was  in  the  spring  after  this  that  Marcia  returned 
home  from  her  last  term  at  boarding-school,  and  first 
saw  him. 


26  A  MODERN  INSTANCE, 


III. 


BARTLEY  woke  on  Sunday  morning  with  the  regrets 
that  a  supper  of  mince-pie  and  toasted  cheese  is  apt 
to  bring.  He  woke  from  a  bad  dream,  and  found  that 
he  had  a  dull  headache.  A  cup  of  coffee  relieved  his 
pain,  but  it  left  him  listless,  and  with  a  longing  for 
sympathy  which  he  experienced  in  any  mental  or 
physical  discomfort.  The  frankness  with  which  he 
then  appealed  for  compassion  was  one  of  the  things 
that  made  people  like  him ;  he  flung  himself  upon  the 
pity  of  the  first  he  met.  It  might  be  some  one  to 
whom  he  had  said  a  cutting  or  mortifying  thing  at 
their  last  encounter,  but  Bartley  did  not  mind  that ; 
what  he  desired  was  commiseration,  and  he  confid- 
ingly ignored  the  past  in  a  trust  that  had  rarely  been 
abused.  If  his  sarcasm  proved  that  he  was  quick 
and  smart,  his  recourse  to  those  who  had  suffered 
from  it  proved  that  he  did  not  mean  anything  by 
what  he  said ;  it  showed  that  he  was  a  man  of  warm 
feelings,  and  that  his  heart  was  in  the  right  place. 

Bartley  deplored  his  disagreeable  sensations  to  the 
other  boarders  at  breakfast,  and  affectionately  excused 
himself  to  them  for  not  going  to  church,  when  they 
turned  into  the  office,  and  gathered  there  before  the 
Franklin  stove,  sensible  of  the  day  in  freshly  shaven 
chins  and  newly  blacked  boots.  The  habit  of  church- 
going  was  so  strong  and  universal  in  Equity  that  even 
strangers  stopping  at  the  hotel  found  themselves  the 
object  of  a  sort  of  hospitable  competition  with  the 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  27 

members  of  the  different  denominations,  who  took  it 
for  granted  that  they  would  wish  to  go  somewhere, 
and  only  suffered  them  a  choice  between  sects.  There 
was  no  intolerance  in  their  offer  of  pews,  but  merely 
a  profound  expectation,  and  one  might  continue  to 
choose  his  place  of  worship  Sabbath  after  Sabbath 
without  offence.  This  was  Bartley's  custom,  and  it 
had  worked  to  his  favor  rather  than  his  disadvantage ; 
for  in  the  rather  chaotic  liberality  into  which  religious 
sentiment  had  fallen  in  Equity,  it  was  tacitly  con- 
ceded  that  the  editor  of  a  paper  devoted  to  the  in- 
terests of  the  whole  town  ought  not  to  be  of  fixed 
theological  opinions. 

Religion  there  had  largely  ceased  to  be  a  fact  of 
spiritual  experience,  and  the  visible  church  flourished 
on  condition  of  providing  for  the  social  needs  of  the 
community.  It  was  practically  held  that  the  salva- 
tion of  one's  soul  must  not  be  made  too  depressing,  or 
the  young  people  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
Professors  of  the  sternest  creeds  temporized  with  sin- 
ners, and  did  what  might  be  done  to  win  them  to 
heaven  by  helping  them  to  have  a  good  time  here. 
The  church  embraced  and  included  the  world.  It  no 
longer  frowned  even  upon  social  dancing,  —  a  trans- 
gression once  so  heinous  in  its  eyes;  it  opened  its 
doors  to  popular  lectures,  and  encouraged  secular 
music  in  its  basements,  where,  during  the  winter, 
oyster  suppers  were  given  in  aid  of  good  objects.  The 
Sunday  school  was  made  particularly  attractive,  both 
to  the  children  and  the  young  men  and  girls  who 
taught  them.  Not  only  at  Thanksgiving,  but  at 
Christmas,  and  latterly  even  at  Easter,  there  were 
special  observances,  which  the  enterprising  spirits 
having  the  welfare  of  the  church  at  heart  tried  to 
make  significant  and  agreeable  to  all,  and  promotive 
of  good  feeling.  Christenings  and  marriages  in  the 
church  were  encouraged,  and  elaborately  celebrated ; 


28  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

death  alone,  though  treated  with  cut-flowers  in  em- 
blematic devices,  refused  to  lend  itself  to  the  cheerful 
intentions  of  those  who  were  struggling  to  render  the 
idea  of  another  and  a  better  world  less  repuHve.  In 
contrast  with  the  relaxation  and  uncertainty  <)f  their 
doctrinal  aim,  the  rude  and  bold  infidelity  of  old 
Squire  Gaylord  had  the  greater  affinity  with  the  mood 
of  the  Puritanism  they  had  outgrown.  But  Fartley 
Hubbard  liked  the  religious  situation  well  enough. 
He  took  a  leading  part  in  the  entertainments,  apd  did 
something  to  impart  to  them  a  literary  cast,  as  i»i  the 
series  of  readings  from  the  poets  which  he  gave,  vhe 
first  winter,  for  the  benefit  of  each  church  in  t'irn. 
At  these  lectures  he  commended  himself  to  the  sober 
elders,  who  were  troubled  by  the  levity  of  his  behav- 
ior with  young  people  on  other  occasions,  by  asking 
one  of  the  ministers  to  open  the  exercises  with  prayer, 
and  another,  at  the  close,  to  invoke  the  Divine  bless- 
ing ;  there  was  no  especial  relevancy  in  this,  but  it 
pleased.  He  kept  himself,  from  the  beginning,  pretty 
constantly  in  the  popular  eye.  He  was  a  speaker  at 
all  public  meetings,  where  his  declamation  was  ad- 
mired ;  and  at  private  parties,  where  the  congealed 
particles  of  village  society  were  united  in  a  frozen 
mass,  he  was  the  first  to  break  the  ice,  and  set  the 
angular  fragments  grating  and  grinding  upon  one 
another. 

He  now  went  to  his  room,  and  opened  his  desk  with 
some  vague  purpose  of  bringing  up  the  arrears  of  his 
correspondence.  Formerly,  before  his  interest  in  the 
newspaper  had  lapsed  at  all,  he  used  to  give  his  Sun- 
day leisure  to  making  selections  and  writing  para- 
graphs for  it;  but  he  now  let  the  pile  of  exchanges  lie 
unopened  on  his  desk,  and  began  to  rummage  through 
the  letters  scattered  about  in  it.  They  were  mostly 
from  young  ladies  with  whom  he  had  corresponded, 
and  some  of  them  enclosed  the  photographs  of  the 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  29 

writers,  doing  their  best  to  look  as  they  hoped  he 
might  think  they  looked.  They  were  not  love-letters, 
but  were  of  that  sort  which  the  laxness  of  our  social 
life  invites  young  people,  who  have  met  pleasantly,  to 
exchange  as  long  as  they  like,  without  explicit  inten- 
tions on  either  side ;  they  commit  the  writers  to  noth- 
ing; they  are  commonly  without  result,  except  in 
wasting  time  which  is  hardly  worth  saving.  Every 
one  who  has  lived  the  American  life  must  have  pro- 
duced them  in  great  numbers.  While  youth  lasts, 
they  afford  an  excitement  whose  charm  is  hard  to 
realize  afterward. 

Hartley's  correspondents  were  young  ladies  of  his 
college  town,  where  he  had  first  begun  to  see  some- 
thing of  social  life  in  days  which  he  now  recognized 
as  those  of  his  green  youth.  They  were  not  so  very 
far  removed  in  point  of  time  ;  but  the  experience  of 
a  larger  world  in  the  vacation  he  had  spent  with  a 
Boston  student  had  relegated  them  to  a  moral  remote- 
ness that  could  not  readily  be  measured.  His  friend 
was  the  son  of  a  family  who  had  diverted  him  from 
the  natural  destiny  of  a  Boston  man  at  Harvard,  and 
sent  him  elsewhere  for  sectarian  reasons.  They  were 
rich  people,  devout  in  their  way,  and  benevolent,  after 
a  fashion  of  their  own  ;  and  their  son  always  brought 
home  with  him,  for  the  holidays  and  other  short  vaca- 
tions, some  fellow-student  accounted  worthy  of  their 
hospitality  through  his  religious  intentions  or  his  in- 
tellectual promise.  These  guests  were  indicated  to 
the  young  man  by  one  of  the  faculty,  and  he  accepted 
their  companionship  for  the  time  with  what  perfunc- 
tory civility  he  could  muster.  He  and  Bartley  had 
amused  themselves  very  well  during  that  vacation. 
The  Hallecks  were  not  fashionable  people,  but  they 
lived  wealthily :  they  had  a  coachman  and  an  inside 
man  (whom  Bartley  at  first  treated  with  a  considera- 
tion which  it  afterward  mortified  him  to  think  of)i 


30  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

their  house  was  richly  furnished  with  cushioned  seats 
dense  carpets,  and  heavy  curtains ;  and  they  were 
visited  by  other  people  of  their  denomination,  and  of 
a  like  abundance.  Some  of  these  were  infected  with 
the  prevailing  culture  of  the  city,  and  the  young 
ladies  especially  dressed  in  a  style  and  let  fall  ideas 
that  filled  the  soul  of  the  country  student  with  won- 
der and  worship.  He  heard  a  great  deal  of  talk  that 
he  did  not  understand ;  but  he  eagerly  treasured  every 
impression,  and  pieced  it  out,  by  question  or  furtive 
observation,  into  an  image  often  shrewdly  true,  and 
often  grotesquely  untrue,  to  the  conditions  into  which 
he  had  been  dropped.  He  civilized  himself  as  rapidly 
as  his  light  permitted.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
church-going ;  but  he  and  young  Halleck  went  also 
to  lectures  and  concerts  ;  they  even  went  to  the  opera, 
and  Bartley,  with  the  privity  of  his  friend,  went  to 
the  theatre.  Halleck  said  that  he  did  not  think  there 
was  much  harm  in  a  play ;  but  that  his  people  stayed 
away  for  the  sake  of  the  example,  —  a  reason  that 
certainly  need  not  hold  with  Bartley. 

At  the  end  of  the  vacation  he  returned  to  college, 
leaving  his  measure  with  Halleck's  tailor,  and  his 
heart  with  all  the  splendors  and  elegances  of  the 
town.  He  found  the  ceilings  very  low  and  the  fash- 
ions much  belated  in  the  village ;  but  he  reconciled 
himself  as  well  as  he  could.  The  real  stress  came 
when  he  left  college  and  the  question  of  doing  some- 
thing for  himself  pressed  upon  him.  He  intended  to 
study  law,  but  he  must  meantime  earn  his  living. 
It  had  been  his  fortune  to  be  left,  when  very  young 
not  only  an  orphan,  but  an  extremely  pretty  child, 
with  an  exceptional  aptness  for  study ;  and  he  had 
been  better  cared  for  than  if  his  father  and  mother 
had  lived.  He  had  been  not  only  well  housed  and 
fed,  and  very  well  dressed,  but  pitied  as  an  orphan, 
and  petted  for  his  beauty  and  talent,  while  he  was 


A   MODEilN   INSTANCE.  31 

always  taught  to  think  of  himself  as  a  poor  boy,  who 
was  winning  his  own  way  through  the  world.  But 
when  his  benefactor  proposed  to  educate  him  for  the 
.ministry,  with  a  view  to  his  final  use  in  missionary 
work,  he  revolted.  He  apprenticed  himself  to  the 
printer  of  his  village,  and  rapidly  picked  up  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  business,  so  that  at  nineteen  he  had  laid 
by  some  money,  and  was  able  to  think  of  going  to 
college.  There  was  a  fund  in  aid  of  indigent  students 
in  the  institution  to  which  he  turned,  and  the  faculty 
favored  him.  He  finished  his  course  with  great  credit 
to  himself  and  the  college,  and  he  was  naturally  in- 
clined to  look  upon  what  had  been  done  for  him 
earlier  as  an  advantage  taken  of  his  youthful  inex- 
perience. He  rebelled  against  the  memory  of  that 
tutelage,  in  spite  of  which  he  had  accomplished  such 
great  things.  If  he  had  not  squandered  his  time  or 
fallen  into  vicious  courses  in  circumstances  of  so 
much  discouragement,  if  he  had  come  out  of  it  all 
self-reliant  and  independent,  he  knew  whom  he  had 
to  thank  for  it.  The  worst  of  the  matter  was  that 
there  was  some  truth  in  all  this. 

The  ardor  of  his  satisfaction  cooled  in  the  two 
years  following  his  graduation,  when  in  intervals  of 
teaching  country  schools  he  was  actually  reduced  to 
work  at  his  trade  on  a  village  newspaper.  But  it 
was  as  a  practical  printer,  through  the  freemasonry  of 
the  craft,  that  Bartley  heard  of  the  wish  of  the  Equity 
committee  to  place  the  Free  Press  in  new  hands, 
and  he  had  to  be  grateful  to  his  trade  for  a  primary 
consideration  from  them  which  his  collegiate  honors 
would  not  have  won  him.  There  had  not  yet  begun 
to  be  that  talk  of  journalism  as  a  profession  which 
has  since  prevailed  with  our  collegians,  and  if  Bart- 
ley  had  thought,  as  other  collegians  think,  of  devoting 
himself  to  newspaper  life,  he  would  have  turned  his 
face  toward  the  city  where  its  prizes  are  won,  —  the 


32  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

ten  and  fifteen  dollar  reporters!) ips  for  which  a  foui 
years'  course  of  the  classics  is  not  too  costly  a  prepa- 
ration. But,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  had  never  regarded 
his  newspaper  as  anything  but  a  make-shift,  by  which 
he  was  to  be  carried  over  a  difficult  and  anxious 
period  of  his  life,  and  enabled  to  attempt  something 
worthier  his  powers.  He  had  no  illusions  concerning 
it ;  if  he  had  ever  thought  of  journalism  as  a  grand 
and  ennobling  profession,  these  ideas  had  perished  in 
his  experience  in  a  village  printing-office.  He  came 
to  his  work  in  Equity  with  practical  and  immediate 
purposes  which  pleased  the  committee  better.  The 
paper  had  been  established  some  time  before,  in  one 
of  those  flurries  of  ambition  which  from  time  to 
time  seized  Equity,  when  its  citizens  reflected  that 
it  was  the  central  town  in  the  county,  and  yet  not 
the  shire-town.  The  question  of  the  removal  of  the 
county- seat  had  periodically  arisen  before ;  but  it 
had  never  been  so  hotly  agitated  as  now.  The  paper 
had  been  a  happy  thought  of  a  local  politician,  whose 
conception  of  its  management  was  that  it  might  be 
easily  edited  by  a  committee,  if  a  printer  could  be 
found  to  publish  it;  but  a  few  months'  experience 
had  made  the  Free  Press  a  terrible  burden  to  its 
founders  ;  it  could  not  be  sustained,  and  it  could  not 
be  let  die  without  final  disaster  to  the  interests  of  the 
town ;  and  the  committee  began  to  cast  about  for  a 
publisher  who  could  also  be  editor.  Bartley,  to  whom 
it  fell,  could  not  be  said  to  have  thrown  his  heart 
and  soul  into  the  work,  but  he  threw  all  his  energy, 
and  he  made  it  more  than  its  friends  could  have 
hoped.  He  espoused  the  cause  of  Equity  in  the 
pending  question  with  the  zeal  of  a  condottiere,  and 
did  service  no  less  faithful  because  of  the  cynical 
quality  latent  in  it.  When  the  legislative  decision 
against  Equity  put  an  end  to  its  ambitious  hopes  for 
the  time  being,  he  continued  in  control  of  the  paper, 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  33 

with  a  fair  prospect  of  getting  the  property  into  his 
own  hands  at  last,  and  with  some  growing  question 
in  his  mind  whether,  after  all,  it  might  not  be  as  easy 
for  him  to  go  into  politics  from  the  newspaper  as 
from  the  law.  He  managed  the  office  very  economi- 
cally, and  by  having  the  work  done  by  girl  appren- 
tices, with  the  help  of  one  boy,  he  made  it  self- 
supporting.  He  modelled  the  newspaper  upon  the 
modern  conception,  through  which  the  country  press 
must  cease  to  have  any  influence  in  public  affairs,  and 
each  paper  become  little  more  than  an  open  letter  of 
neighborhood  gossip.  But  while  he  tilled  his  sheet 
with  minute  chronicles  of  the  goings  and  comings  of 
unimportant  persons,  and  with  all  attainable  particu- 
lars of  the  ordinary  life  of  the  different  localities,  he 
continued  to  make  spicy  hits  at  the  enemies  of  Equity 
in  the  late  struggle,  and  kept  the  public  spirit  of  the 
town  alive.  He  had  lately  undertaken  to  make 
known  its  advantages  as  a  summer  resort,  and  had 
published  a  series  of  encomiums  upon  the  beauty  of 
its  scenery  and  the  healthfulness  of  its  air  and  water, 
which  it  was  believed  would  put  it  in  a  position  of 
rivalry  with  some  of  the  famous  White  Mountain 
places.  He  invited  the  enterprise  of  outside  capital, 
and  advocated  a  narrow-gauge  road  up  the  valley  of 
the  river  through  the  Notch,  so  as  to  develop  the 
picturesque  advantages  of  that  region.  In  all  this, 
the  color  of  mockery  let  the  wise  perceive  that  Bart- 
ley  saw  the  joke  and  enjoyed  it,  and  it  deepened  the 
popular  impression  of  his  smartness. 

This  vein  of  cynicism  was  not  characteristic,  as  it 
would  have  been  in  an  older  man;  it  might  have 
been  part  of  that  spiritual  and  intellectual  unruliness 
of  youth,  which  people  laugh  at  and  forgive,  and 
which  one  generally  regards  in  after  life  as  some- 
thing almost  alien  to  one's  self.  He  wrote  long, 
bragging  articles  about  Equity,  in  a  tone  bordering 

3 


34  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

on  burlesque,  and  he  had  a  department  in  his  paper 
where  he  printed  humorous  squibs  of  his  own  and  of 
other  people ;  these  were  sometimes  copied,  and  in 
the  daily  papers  of  the  State  he  had  been  mentioned 
as  "  the  funny  man  of  the  Equity  Free  Press."  He 
also  sent  letters  to  one  of  the  Boston  journals,  which 
he  reproduced  in  his  own  sheet,  and  which  gave  him 
an  importance  that  the  best  endeavor  as  a  country 
editor  would  never  have  won  him  with  the  villagers. 
He  would  naturally,  as  the  local  printer,  have  ranked 
a  little  above  the  foreman  of  the  saw-mill  in  the 
social  scale,  and  decidedly  below  the  master  of  the 
Academy;  but  his  personal  qualities  elevated  him 
over  the  head  even  of  the  latter.  But  above  all,  the 
fact  that  he  was  studying  law  was  a  guaranty  of  his 
superiority  that  nothing  else  could  have  given ;  that 
science  is  the  fountain  of  the  highest  distinction  in  a 
country  town.  Bartley's  whole  course  implied  that 
he  was  above  editing  the  Free  Press,  but  that  he 
did  it  because  it  served  his  turn.  That  was  admi- 
rable. 

He  sat  a  long  time  with  these  girls'  letters  before 
him,  and  lost  himself  in  a  pensive  reverie  over  their 
photographs,  and  over  the  good  times  he  used  to  have 
with  them.  He  mused  in  that  formless  way  in  which 
a  young  man  thinks  about  young  girls ;  his  soul  is 
suffused  with  a  sense  of  their  sweetness  and  bright- 
ness, and  unless  he  is  distinctly  in  love  there  is  no  in- 
tention in  his  thoughts  of  them ;  even  then  there  is 
often  no  intention.  Bartley  might  very  well  have  a 
good  conscience  about  them ;  he  had  broken  no  hearts 
among  them,  and  had  only  met  them  half-way  in  flir- 
tation. What  he  really  regretted,  as  he  held  their  let- 
ters in  his  hand,  was  that  he  had  never  got  up  a  corre- 
spondence with  two  or  three  of  the  girls  whom  he  had 
met  in  Boston.  Though  he  had  been  cowed  by  their 
magnificence  in  the  beginning,  he  had  never  had  any 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  35 

reverence  for  them ;  he  believed  that  they  would 
have  liked  very  well  to  continue  his  acquaintance ; 
but  he  had  not  known  how  to  open  a  correspondence, 
and  the  point  was  one  on  which  he  was  ashamed  to 
consult  Halleck.  These  college  belles,  compared  with 
them,  were  amusingly  inferior ;  by  a  natural  turn  of 
thought,  he  realized  that  they  were  inferior  to  Marcia 
Gaylord,  too,  in  looks  and  style,  no  less  than  in  an 
impassioned  preference  for  himself.  A  distaste  for 
their  somewhat  veteran  ways  in  flirtation  grew  upon 
him  as  he  thought  of  her ;  he  philosophized  against 
them  to  her  advantage ;  he  could  not  blame  her  if 
she  did  not  know  how  to  hide  her  feelings  for  him. 
Yet  he  knew  that  Marcia  would  rather  have  died  than 
let  him  suppose  that  she  cared  for  him,  if  she  had 
known  that  she  was  doing  it.  The  fun  of  it  was, 
that  she  should  not  know;  this  charmed  him,  it 
touched  him,  even ;  he  did  not  think  of  it  exultingly, 
as  the  night  before,  but  sweetly,  fondly,  and  with  a 
final  curiosity  to  see  her  again,  and  enjoy  the  fact  in 
her  presence.  The  acrid  little  jets  of  smoke  which 
escaped  from  the  joints  of  his  stove  from  time  to  time 
annoyed  him ;  he  shut  his  portfolio  at  last,  and  went 
out  to  walk. 


36  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 


IV. 


THE  forenoon  sunshine,  beating  strong  upon  the 
thin  snow  along  the  edges  of  the  porch  floor,  tattered 
them  with  a  little  thaw  here  and  there  ;  but  it  had  no 
effect  upon  the  hard-packed  levels  of  the  street,  up  the 
middle  of  which  Bartley  walked  in  a  silence  intensi- 
fied by  the  muffled  voices  of  exhortation  that  came 
to  him  out  of  the  churches.  It  was  in  the  very  heart 
of  sermon-time,  and  he  had  the  whole  street  to  him- 
self on  his  way  up  to  Squire  Gaylord's  house.  As  he 
drew  near,  he  saw  smoke  ascending  from  the  chimney 
of  the  lawyer's  office,  —  a  little  white  building  that 
stood  apart  from  the  dwelling  on  the  left  of  the  gate, 
and  he  knew  that  the  old  man  was  within,  reading 
there,  with  his  hat  on  and  his  long  legs  flung  out 
toward  the  stove,  unshaven  and  unkempt,  in  a  grim 
protest  against  the  prevalent  Christian  superstition. 
He  might  be  reading  Hume  or  Gibbon,  or  he  might 
be  reading  the  Bible,  —  a  book  in  which  he  was 
deeply  versed,  and  from  which  he  was  furnished 
with  texts  for  the  demolition  of  its  friends,  his  adver- 
saries. He  professed  himself  a  great  admirer  of  its  lit- 
erature, and,  in  the  heat  of  controversy,  he  often  found 
himself  a  defender  of  its  doctrines  when  he  had  occa- 
sion to  expose  the  fallacy  of  latitudinarian  interpre- 
tations. For  liberal  Christianity  he  had  nothing  but 
contempt,  and  refuted  it  with  a  scorn  which  spared 
none  of  the  worldly  tendencies  of  the  church  in  Equity. 
The  idea  that  souls  were  to  be  saved  by  church  so- 
tiables  filled  him  with  iiiappeasable  rancor ;  and  he 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  37 

maintained  the  superiority  of  the  old  Puritanic  dis- 
cipline against  them  with  a  fervor  which  nothing  but 
its  re-establishment  could  have  abated.  It  was  said 
that  Squire  Gaylord's  influence  had  largely  helped  to 
keep  in  place  the  last  of  the  rigidly  orthodox  minis- 
ters, under  whom  his  liberalizing  congregation  chafed 
for  years  of  discontent ;  but  this  was  probably  an  ex-i 
aggeration  of  the  native  humor.  Mrs.  Gaylord  had 
belonged  to  this  church,  and  had  never  formally  with- 
drawn from  it,  and  the  lawyer  always  contributed  to 
pay  the  minister's  salary.  He  also  managed  a  little 
property  for  him  so  well  as  to  make  him  independent 
when  he  was  at  last  asked  to  resign  by  his  deacons. 

In  another  mood,  Bartley  might  have  stepped  aside 
to  look  in  on  the  Squire,  before  asking  at  the  house 
door  for  Marcia.  They  relished  each  other's  company, 
as  people  of  contrary  opinions  and  of  no  opinions  are 
apt  to  do.  Bartley  loved  to  hear  the  Squire  get  go- 
ing, as  he  said,  and  the  old  man  felt  a  fascination  in 
the  youngster.  Bartley  was  smart ;  he  took  a  point  as 
quick  as  lightning ;  and  the  Squire  did  not  mind  his 
making  friends  with  the  Mammon  of  Righteousness, 
as  he  called  the  visible  church  in  Equity.  It  amused 
him  to  see  Bartley  lending  the  church  the  zealous  sup- 
port of  the  press,  with  an  impartial  patronage  of  the 
different  creeds.  There  had  been  times  in  his  own 
career  when  the  silence  of  his  opinions  would  have 
greatly  advanced  him,  but  he  had  not  chosen  to  pay 
this  price  for  success  ;  he  liked  his  freedom,  or  he 
liked  the  bitter  tang  of  his  own  tongue  too  well,  and 
he  had  remained  a  leading  lawyer  in  Equity,  when  he 
might  have  ended  a  judge,  or  even  a  Congressman. 
Of  late  years,  however,  since  people  whom  he  could 
have  joined  in  their  agnosticism  so  heartily,  up  to  a 
certain  point,  had  begun  to  make  such  fools  of  them- 
selves about  Darwinism  and  the  brotherhood  of  all 
men  in  the  monkey,  he  had  grown  much  more  tol- 


38  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

erant.  He  still  clung  to  his  old-fashioned  deistical 
opinions  ;  but  he  thought  no  worse  of  a  man  for  not 
holding  them ;  he  did  not  deny  that  a  man  might  he 
a  Christian,  and  still  he  a  very  good  man. 

The  audacious  humor  of  his  position  sufficed  with 
a  people  who  liked  a  joke  rather  better  than  anything 
else  ;  in  his  old  age,  his  infidelity  was  something  that 
would  hardly  have  been  changed,  if  possible,  by  a  pop- 
ular vote.  Even  his  wife,  to  whom  it  had  once  been 
a  heavy  cross,  borne  with  secret  prayer  and  tears,  had 
long  ceased  to  gainsay  it  in  any  wise.  Her  family 
had  opposed  her  yoking  with  an  unbeliever  when  she 
married  him,  but  she  had  some  such  hopes  of  convert- 
ing him  as  women  cherish  who  give  themselves  to 
men  confirmed  in  drunkenness.  She  learned,  as  other 
women  do,  that  she  could  hardly  change  her  husband 
in  the  least  of  his  habits,  and  that,  in  this  great  mat- 
ter of  his  unbelief,  her  love  was  powerless.  It  became 
easier  at  last  for  her  to  add  self-sacrifice  to  self-sacrifice 
than  to  vex  him  with  her  anxieties  about  his  soul,  and 
to  act  upon  the  feeling  that,  if  he  must  be  lost,  then  she 
did  not  care  to  be  saved.  He  had  never  interfered 
with  her  church-going ;  he  had  rather  promoted  it,  for 
he  liked  to  have  women  go ;  but  the  time  came  when 
she  no  longer  cared  to  go  without  him ;  she  lapsed 
from  her  membership,  and  it  was  now  many  years 
since  she  had  worshipped  with  the  people  of  her  faith, 
if,  indeed,  she  were  still  of  any  faith.  Her  life  was 
silenced  in  every  way,  and,  as  often  happens  with 
aging  wives  in  country  towns,  she  seldom  went  out 
of  her  own  door,  and  never  appeared  at  the  social  or 
public  solemnities  of  the  village.  Her  husband  and 
her  daughter  composed  and  bounded  her  world, — 
she  always  talked  of  them,  or  of  other  things  as  re- 
lated to  them.  She  had  grown  an  elderly  woman, 
without  losing  the  color  of  her  yellow  hair ;  and  the 
bloom  of  girlhood  had  been  stayed  in  her  cheeks  as  if 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  39 

by  the  young  habit  of  blushing,  which  she  had  kept. 
She  was  still  what  her  neighbors  called  very  pretty- 
appearing,  and  she  must  have  been  a  beautiful  girl. 
The  silence  of  her  inward  life  subdued  her  manner, 
till  now  she  seemed  always  to  have  come  from  some 
place  on  which  a  deep  hush  had  newly  fallen. 

She  answered  the  door  when  Bartley  turned  the 
crank  that  snapped  the  gong-bell  in  its  centre ;  and 
the  young  man,  who  was  looking  at  the  street  while 
waiting  for  some  one  to  come,  confronted  her  with  a 
start.  "  Oh ! "  he  said,  "  I  thought  it  was  Marcia. 
Good  morning,  Mrs.  Gaylord.  Is  n't  Marcia  at 
home  ? " 

"She  went  to  church,  this  morning,"  replied  her 
mother.  "  Won't  you  walk  in  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,  I  guess  I  will,  thank  you,"  faltered 
Bartley,  in  the  irresolution  of  his  disappointment. 
"  I  hope  I  sha'n't  disturb  you." 

"  Come  right  into  the  sitting-room.  She  won't  be 
gone  a  great  while,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Gaylord,  leading 
the  way  to  the  large  square  room  into  which  a  door 
at  the  end  of  the  narrow  hall  opened.  A  slumber- 
ous heat  from  a  sheet-iron  wood-stove  pervaded  the 
place,  and  a  clock  ticked  monotonously  on  a  shelf  in 
the  corner.  Mrs.  Gaylord  said,  "  Won't  you  take 
a  chair  ? "  and  herself  sank  into  the  rocker,  with  a 
deep  feather  cushion  in  the  seat,  and  a  thinner 
feather  cushion  tied  half-way  up  the  back.  After 
the  more  active  duties  of  her  housekeeping  were 
done,  she  sat  every  day  in  this  chair  with  her  knit- 
ting or  sewing,  and  let  the  clock  tick  the  long  hour? 
of  her  life  away,  with  no  more  apparent  impatience 
of  them,  or  sense  of  their  dulness,  than  the  cat  on 
the  braided  rug  at  her  feet,  or  the  geraniums  in  the 
pots  at  the  sunny  window.  "  Are  you  pretty  well  to- 
day ? "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  no,  Mrs.  Gaylord,  I  'm  not,"  answered  Bart- 


40  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

ley.  "  I  'm  all  out  of  sorts.  I  have  n't  felt  so  dys- 
peptic for  I  don't  know  how  long." 

Mrs.  Gay  lord  smoothed  the  silk  dress  across  her 
lap,  —  the  thin  old  black  silk  which  she  still  instinct- 
ively put  on  for  Sabbath  observance,  though  it  was 
so  long  since  she  had  worn  it  to  church.  "  Mr.  Gay- 
lord  used  to  have  it  when  we  were  first  married, 
though  he  aint  been  troubled  with  it  of  late  years. 
He  seemed  to  think  then  it  was  worse  Sundays." 

"  I  don't  believe  Sunday  has  much  to  do  with  it,  in 
my  case.  I  ate  some  mince-pie  and  some  toasted 
cheese  last  night,  and  I  guess  they  did  n't  agree  with 
me  very  well,"  said  Bartley,  who  did  not  spare  him- 
self the  confession  of  his  sins  when  seeking  sympa- 
thy :  it  was  this  candor  that  went  so  far  to  convince 
people  of  his  good-heartedness. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  heard  that  meat-pie  was 
bad,"  said  Mrs.  Gaylord,  thoughtfully.  "Mr.  Gay- 
lord  used  to  eat  it  right  along  all  through  his  dys- 
pepsia, and  he  never  complained  of  it.  And  the 
cheese  ought  to  have  made  it  digest." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  it  was,"  replied  Bartley, 
plaintively  submitting  to  be  exonerated,  "  but  I  feel 
perfectly  used  up.  Oh,  I  suppose  I  shall  get  over  it, 
or  forget  all  about  it,  by  to-morrow,"  he  added,  with 
strenuous  cheerfulness.  "It  isn't  anything  worth 
minding." 

Mrs.  Gaylord  seemed  to  differ  with  him  on  this 
point.  "  Head  ache  any  ? "  she  asked. 

"  It  did  this  morning,  when  I  first  woke  up,"  Bart- 
ley assented. 

"  I  don't  believe  but  what  a  cup  of  tea  would  be 
the  best  thing  for  you,"  she  said,  critically. 

Bartley  had  instinctively  practised  a  social  art 
which  ingratiated  him  with  people  at  Equity  as 
much  as  his  demands  for  sympathy  endeared  him: 
he  gave  trouble  in  little  unusual  ways.  He  now 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  41 

said,  "Oh,  I  wish  you  would  give  me  a  cup,  Mrs. 
Gaylord." 

"  Why,  yes,  indeed  !  That 's  just  what  I  was  going 
to,"  she  replied.  She  went  to  the  kitchen,  which  lay 
beyond  another  room,  and  reappeared  with  the  tea 
directly,  proud  of  her  promptness,  but  having  it  or 
her  conscience  to  explain  it.  "  I  'most  always  keep 
the  pot  on  the  stove  hearth,  Sunday  morning,  so 's  to 
have  it  ready  if  Mr.  Gaylord  ever  wants  a  cup.  He 's  a 
master  hand  for  tea,  and  always  was.  There  :  /  guess 
you  better  take  it  without  milk.  I  put  some  sugar  in 
the  saucer,  if  you  want  any."  She  dropped  noise- 
lessly upon  her  feather  cushion  again,  and  Bartley, 
who  had  risen  to  receive  the  tea  from  her,  remained 
standing  while  he  drank  it. 

"  That  does  seem  to  go  to  the  spot,"  he  said,  as  he 
sipped  it,  thoughtfully  observant  of  its  effect  upon  his 
disagreeable  feelings.  "  I  wish  I  had  you  to  take  care 
of  me,  Mrs.  Gaylord,  and  keep  me  from  making  a 
fool  of  myself,"  he  added,  when  he  had  drained  the 
cup.  "  No,  no  ! "  he  cried,  at  her  offering  to  take  it 
from  him.  "I'll  set  it  down.  I  know  it  will  fret 
you  to  have  it  in  here,  arid  I  '11  carry  it  out  into  the 
kitchen."  He  did  so  before  she  could  prevent  him, 
and  came  back,  touching  his  mustache  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. "  I  declare,  Mrs.  Gaylord,  I  should  love  to 
live  in  a  kitchen  like  that." 

"  I  guess  you  would  n't  if  you  had  to,"  said  Mrs. 
Gaylord,  flattered  into  a  smile.  "  Marcia,  she  likes  to 
sit  out  there,  she  says,  better  than  anywheres  in  the 
house.  But  I  always  tell  her  it 's  because  she  was 
there  so  much  when  she  was  little.  I  don't  see  as 
she  seems  over-anxious  to  do  anything  there  but  sit, 
I  tell  her.  Not  but  what  she  knows  how  well  enough. 
Mr.  Gaylord,  too,  he'  s  great  for  being  round  in  the 
kitchen.  If  he  gets  up  in  the  night,  when  he  has  his 
waking  spells,  he  had  rather  take  his  lamp  out  there, 


42  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

if  there 's  a  fire  left,  and  read,  any  time,  than  what  he 
would  in  the  parlor.  Well,  we  used  to  sit  there  to- 
gether a  good  deal  when  we  were  young,  arid  he  got 
the  habit  of  it.  There's  everything  in  habit,"  she 
added,  thoughtfully.  "  Marcia,  she 's  got  quite  in  the 
way,  lately,  of  going  to  the  Methodist  church." 

"Yes,  I've  seen  her  there.  You  know  I  board 
round  at  the  different  churches,  as  the  schoolmaster 
used  to  at  the  houses  in  the  old  times." 

Mrs.  Gaylord  looked  up  at  the  clock,  and  gave  a 
little  nervous  laugh.  "  I  don't  know  what  Marcia  will 
say  to  my  letting  her  company  stay  in  the  sitting- 
room.  She's  pretty  late  to-day.  But  I  guess  you 
won't  have  much  longer  to  wait,  now." 

She  spoke  with  that  awe  of  her  daughter  and  her 
judgments  which  is  one  of  the  pathetic  idiosyncrasies 
of  a  certain  class  of  American  mothers.  They  feel 
themselves  to  be  not  so  well  educated  as  their  daugh- 
ters, whose  fancied  knowledge  of  the  world  they  let 
outweigh  their  own  experience  of  life ;  they  are  used 
to  deferring  to  them,  and  they  shrink  willingly  into 
household  drudges  before  them,  and  leave  them  to 
order  the  social  affairs  of  the  family.  Mrs.  Gaylord 
was  not  much  afraid  of  Bartley  for  himself,  but  as 
Marcia's  company  he  made  her  more  and  more  uneasy 
toward  the  end  of  the  quarter  of  an  hour  in  which 
she  tried  to  entertain  him  with  her  simple  talk,  vary- 
ing from  Mr.  Gaylord  to  Marcia,  and  from  Marcia  to 
Mr.  Gaylord  again.  When  she  recognized  the  girl's 
quick  touch  in  the  closing  of  the  front  door,  and  her 
elastic  step  approached  through  the  hall,  the  mother 
made  a  little  deprecating  noise  in  her  throat,  and 
fidgeted  in  her  chair.  As  soon  as  Marcia  opened  the 
sitting-room  door,  Mrs.  Gaylord  modestly  rose  and 
went  out  into  the  kitchen :  the  mother  who  remained 
in  the  room  when  her  daughter  had  company  was  an 
oddity  almost  unknown  in  Equity. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  43 

Marcia's  face  flashed  all  into  a  light  of  joy  at  sight 
of  Bartley,  who  scarcely  waited  for  her  mother  to  be 
gone  before  he  drew  her  toward  him  by  the  hand  she 
had  given.  She  mechanically  yielded ;  and  then, 
as  if  the  recollection  of  some  new  resolution  forced 
itself  through  her  pleasure  at  sight  of  him,  she  freed! 
her  hand,  and,  retreating  a  step  or  two,  confronted 
him. 

"Why,  Marcia,"  he  said,  "what's  the  matter?" 

"  Nothing/'  she  answered. 

It  might  have  amused  Bartley,  if  he  had  felt  quite 
well,  to  see  the  girl  so  defiant  of  him,  when  she  was 
really  so  much  in  love  with  him,  but  it  certainly  did 
not  amuse  him  now :  it  disappointed  him  in  his  ex- 
pectation of  finding  her  femininely  soft  and  comfort- 
ing, and  he  did  not  know  just  what  to  do.  He  stood 
staring  at  her  in  discomfiture,  while  she  gained  in 
outward  composure,  though  her  cheeks  were  of  the 
Jacqueminot  red  of  the  ribbon  at  her  throat.  "  What 
have  I  done,  Marcia  ? "  he  faltered. 

"  Oh,  you  have  n't  done  anything." 

"  Some  one  has  been  talking  to  you  against  me." 

"  No  one  has  said  a  word  to  me  about  you." 

"  Then  why  are  you  so  cold — so  strange  —  so  — 
so  —  different  ?  " 

"  Different  ? " 

"  Yes,  from  what  you  were  last  night,"  he  answered, 
with  an  aggrieved  air. 

"  Oh,  we  see  some  things  differently  by  daylight," 
she  lightly  explained.  "  Won't  you  sit  down  ? " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  Bartley  replied,  sadly  but  unre- 
sentfully.  "  I  think  I  had  better  be  going.  I  sea 
there  is  something  wrong  —  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  say  there  is  anything  wrong," 
she  retorted.  "  What  have  /  done  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  have  not  done  anything ;  I  take  it  back. 
It  is  all  right.  But  when  I  came  here  this  morning 


44  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

—  encouraged  —  hoping  —  that  you  had  the  same 
feeling  as  myself,  and  you  seem  to  forget  everything 
but  a  ceremonious  acquaintanceship  —  why,  it  is  all 
right,  of  course.  I  have  no  reason  to  complain ;  but 
I  must  say  that  I  can't  help  being  surprised."  He 
saw  her  lips  quiver  and  her  bosorn  heave.  "  Marcia, 
do  you  blame  me  for  feeling  hurt  at  your  coldness 
when  I  came  here  to  tell  you — to  tell  you  I — 1  love 
you  ? "  With  his  nerves  all  unstrung,  and  his  hunger 
for  sympathy,  he  really  believed  that  he  had  come 
to  tell  her  this.  "  Yes,"  he  added,  bitterly,  "  I  will 
tell  you,  though  it  seems  to  be  the  last  word  I  shall 
speak  to  you.  1 11  go,  now." 

"  Bartley  !  You  shall  never  go  ! "  she  cried,  throwing 
herself  in  his  way.  "  Do  you  think  I  don't  care  for 
you,  too  ?  You  may  kiss  me, — you  may  kill  me, 
now  ! " 

The  passionate  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  with- 
out the  sound  of  sobs  or  the  contortion  of  weeping, 
and  she  did  not  wait  for  his  embrace.  She  flung  her 
arms  around  his  neck  and  held  him  fast,  crying,  "  I 
would  n't  let  you,  for  your  own  sake,  darling ;  and  if 
I  had  died  for  it  —  I  thought  I  should  die  last  night  • — 
I  was  never  going  to  let  you  kiss  me  again  till  you 
said  — till  — till  — now!  Don't  you  see?"  She 
caught  him  tighter,  and  hid  her  face  in  his  neck,  and 
cried  and  laughed  for  joy  and  shame,  while  he  suf- 
fered her  caresses  with  a  certain  bewilderment.  "  I 
want  to  tell  you  now  —  I  want  to  explain,"  she  said, 
lifting  her  face  and  letting  him  from  her  as  far  as  her 
arms,  caught  around  his  neck,  would  reach,  and  fer- 
vidly searching  his  eyes,  lest  some  ray  of  what  he 
would  think  should  escape  her.  "  Don't  speak  a  word 
first !  Father  saw  us  at  the  door  last  night,  —  he  hap- 
pened to  be  coming  downstairs,  because  he  could  n't 
sleep,  — just  when  you  —  Oh,  Bartley,  don't !  "  she 
implored,  at  the  little  smile  that  made  his  mustache 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  45 

quiver.  "  And  he  asked  me  whether  we  were  engaged ; 
and  when  I  could  n't  tell  him  we  were,  I  know  what 
he  thought.  I  knew  how  he  despised  me,  and  I  de- 
termined that,  if  you  did  n't  tell  me  that  you  cared 
for  me  —  And  that 's  the  reason,  Bartley,  and  not  -— - 
not  because  I  did  n't  care  more  for  you  than  I  do  for 
the  whole  world.  And — and  —  you  don't  mind  it, 
now,  do  you  ?  It  was  for  your  sake,  dearest." 

Whether  Bartley  perfectly  divined  or  not  all  the 
feeling  at  which  her  words  hinted,  it  was  delicious  to 
be  clung  about  by  such  a  pretty  girl  as  Marcia  Gay- 
lord,  to  have  her  now  darting  her  face  into  his  neck- 
scarf  with  intolerable  consciousness,  and  now  boldly 
confronting  him  with  all-defying  fondness  while  she 
lightly  pushed  him  and  pulled  him  here  and  there  in 
the  vehemence  of  her  appeal.  Perhaps  such  a  man, 
in  those  fastnesses  of  his  nature  which  psychology 
has  not  yet  explored,  never  loses,  even  in  the  tenderest 
transports,  the  sense  of  prey  as  to  the  girl  whose  love 
he  has  won ;  but  if  this  is  certain,  it  is  also  certain 
that  he  has  transports  which  are  tender,  and  Bartley 
now  felt  his  soul  melted  with  affection  that  was  very 
novel  and  sweet. 

"  Why,  Marcia  ! "  he  said,  "  what  a  strange  girl  you 
are ! "  He  sunk  into  his  chair  again,  and,  putting  his 
arms  around  her  waist,  drew  her  upon  his  knee,  like 
a  child. 

She  held  herself  apart  from  him  at  her  arm's 
length,  and  said,  "  Wait !  Let  me  say  it  before  it 
seems  as  if  we  had  always  been  engaged,  and  every- 
thing was  as  right  then  as  it  is  now.  Did  you  despise 
me  for  letting  you  kiss  me  before  we  were  engaged  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  laughed  again.     "  I  liked  you  for  it." 

"  But  if  you  thought  I  would  let  any  one  else,  you 
would  n't  have  liked  it  ? " 

This  diverted  him  still  more.  "  I  should  n't  have 
liked  that  more  than  half  as  well." 


46  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"No,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  She  dropped  hel 
face  awhile  on  his  shoulder,  and  seemed  to  be  strug- 
gling with  herself.  Then  she  lifted  it,  and  "  Did  you 
ever  —  did  you  — "  she  gasped. 

"  If  you  want  me  to  say  that  all  the  other  girls  in 
the  world  are  not  worth  a  hair  of  your  head,  I  '11  say 
that,  Marcia.  Now,  let 's  talk  business  ! " 

This  made  her  laugh,  and  "  I  shall  want  a  little 
lock  of  yours,"  she  said,  as  if  they  had  hitherto  been 
talking  of  nothing  but  each  other's  hair. 

"  And  I  shall  want  all  of  yours,"  he  answered. 

"  No.  Don't  be  silly."  She  critically  explored  his 
face.  "  How  funny  to  have  a  mole  in  your  eyebrow!" 
She  put  her  finger  on  it.  "  I  never  saw  it  before." 

"  You  never  looked  so  closely.  There 's  a  scar  at 
fche  corner  of  your  upper  lip  that  I  had  n't  noticed." 

*•  Can  you  see  that  ? "  she  demanded,  radiantly. 
**  Well,  you  have  got  good  eyes !  The  cat  did  it  when 
I  was  a  little  girl." 

The  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Gaylord  surprised  them 
in  the  celebration  of  these  discoveries,  —  or,  rather, 
she  surprised  herself,  for  she  stood  holding  the  door 
and  helpless  to  move,  though  in  her  heart  she  had  an 
apologetic  impulse  to  retire,  and  she  even  believed  that 
she  made  some  murmurs  of  excuse  for  her  intrusion. 
Bartley  was  equally  abashed,  but  Marcia  rose  with 
the  coolness  of  her  sex  in  the  intimate  emergencies 
which  confound  a  man.  "  Oh,  mother,  it 's  you  !  I 
forgot  about  you.  Come  in !  Or  I  '11  set  the  table, 
if  that 's  what  you  want."  As  Mrs.  Gaylord  continued 
to  look  from  her  to  Bartley  in  her  daze,  Marcia  added, 
simply,  "  We  're  engaged,  mother.  You  may  as  well 
know  it  first  as  last,  and  I  guess  you  better  know  it 
first." 

Her  mother  appeared  not  to  think  it  safe  to  relax 
her  hold  upon  the  door,  and  Bartley  went  filially  to 
her  rescue  —  if  it  was  rescue  to  salute  her  blush- 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  47 

ing  defencelessness  as  he  did.  A  confused  sense  of 
the  extraordinary  nature  and  possible  impropriety  of 
the  proceeding  may  have  suggested  her  husband  to 
her  mind ;  or  it  may  have  been  a  feeling  that  some 
remark  was  expected  of  her,  even  in  the  mental  desti- 
tution to  which  she  was  reduced. 

"  Have  you  told  Mr.  Gaylord  about  it  ? "  she  asked 
of  either,  or  neither,  or  both,  as  they  chose  to  take  it. 

Bartley  left  the  word  to  Marcia,  who  answered, 
"  Well,  no,  mother.  We  have  n't  yet.  We  've  only 
just  found  it  out  ourselves.  I  guess  father  can  wait 
till  he  comes  in  to  dinner.  I  intend  to  keep  Bartley 
here  to  prove  it/' 

"  He  said,"  remarked  Mrs.  Gaylord,  whom  Bartley 
had  led  to  her  chair  and  placed  on  her  cushion, "  't  he 
had  a  headache  when  he  first  came  in,"  and  she 
appealed  to  him  for  corroboration,  while  she  vainly 
endeavored  to  gather  force  to  grapple  again  with  the 
larger  fact  that  he  and  Marcia  were  just  engaged  to 
be  married. 

Marcia  stooped  down,  and  pulled  her  mother  up 
out  of  her  chair  with  a  hug.  "  Oh,  come  now,  mother ! 
You  must  n't  let  it  take  your  breath  away,"  she  said, 
with  patronizing  fondness.  "  I  'm  not  afraid  of  what 
father  will  say.  You  know  what  he  thinks  of  Bartley, 
—  or  Mr.  Hubbard,  as  I  presume  you  '11  want  me  to 
call  him  !  Now,  mother,  you  just  run  up  stairs,  and 
put  on  your  best  cap,  and  leave  me  to  set  the  table 
and  get  up  the  dinner.  I  guess  I  can  get  Bartley  to 
help  me.  Mother,  mother,  mother!"  she  cried,  in 
happiness  that  was  otherwise  unutterable,  and  clasp- 
ing her  mother  closer  in  her  strong  young  arms,  she 
kissed  her  with  a  fervor  that  made  her  blush  again 
before  the  young  man. 

"  Marcia,  Marcia  !  You  had  n't  ought  to !  It  '3 
ridiculous  ! "  she  protested.  But  she  suffered  herself 
to  be  thrust  out  of  the  room,  grateful  for  exile,  in 


48  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

which  she  could  collect  her  scattered  wits  and  set 
herself  to  realize  the  fact  that  had  dispersed  them.  It 
was  decorous,  also,  for  her  to  leave  Marcia  alone  with 
Mr.  Hubbard,  far  more  so  now  than  when  he  was 
merely  company ;  she  felt  that,  and  she  fumbled  over 
the  dressing  she  was  sent  about,  and  once  she  looked 
out  of  her  chamber  window  at  the  office  where  Mr. 
Gaylord  sat,  and  wondered  what  Mr.  Gaylord  (she 
thought  of  him,  and  even  dreamt  of  him,  as  Mr.  Gay- 
lord,  and  had  never,  in  the  most  familiar  moments, 
addressed  him  otherwise)  would  say !  But  she  left 
the  solution  of  the  problem  to  him  and  Marcia ;  she 
was  used  to  leaving  them  to  the  settlement  of  their 
own  difficulties. 

"Now,  Bartley,"  said  Marcia,  in  the  business-like 
way  that  women  assume  in  such  matters,  as  soon  as 
the  great  fact  is  no  longer  in  doubt,  "  you  must  help 
me  to  set  the  table.  Put  up  that  leaf  and  I  '11  put  up 
this.  I  'm  going  to  do  more  for  mother  than  I  used 
to,"  she  said,  repentant  in  her  bliss.  "  It 's  a  shame 
how  much  I  Ve  left  to  her."  The  domestic  instinct 
was  already  astir  in  her  heart. 

Bartley  pulled  the  table-cloth  straight  from  her, 
and  vied  with  her  in  the  rapidity  and  exactness  with 
which  he  arranged  the  knives  and  forks  at  right 
angles  beside  the  plates.  When  it  came  to  some 
heavier  dishes,  they  agreed  to  carry  them  turn  about ; 
but  when  it  was  her  turn,  he  put  out  his  hand  to 
support  her  elbow :  "  As  I  did  last  night,  and  saved 
you  from  dropping  a  lamp." 

This  made  her  laugh,  and  she  dropped  the  first  dish 
with  a  crash.  "  Poor  mother  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
know  she  heard  that,  and  she  '11  be  in  agony  to  know 
which  one  it  is." 

Mrs.  Gaylord  did  indeed  hear  it,  far  off  in  her 
chamber,  and  quaked  with  an  anxiety  which  became 
intolerable  at  last. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  49 

*  Marcia !  Marcia ! "  she  quavered,  dowr  the  stairs, 
"  what  have  you  broken  ? " 

Marcia  opened  the  door  long  enough  to  call  back, 
*  Oh,  only  the  old  blue-edged  platter,  mother ! "  and 
then  she  flew  at  Bartley,  crying,  "  For  sharne !  For 
shame ! "  and  pressing  her  hand  over  his  mouth  to 
stifle  his  laughter.  "She'll  hear  you,  Bartley,  and 
think  you  're  laughing  at  her."  But  she  laughed  her- 
self at  his  struggles,  and  ended  by  taking  him  by  the 
hand  and  pulling  him  out  into  the  kitchen,  where 
neither  of  them  could  be  heard.  She  abandoned  her- 
self to  the  ecstasy  of  her  soul,  and  he  thought  she 
had  never  been  so  charming  as  in  this  wild  gayety. 

"  Why,  Marsh  !  I  never  saw  you  carry  on  so  be- 
fore ! " 

"  You  never  saw  me  engaged  before  !  That 's  the 
way  all  girls  act  —  if  they  get  the  chance.  Don't  you 
like  me  to  be  so? "  she  asked,  with  quick  anxiety. 

"  Rather ! "  he  replied. 

"  Oh,  Bartley ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  I  feel  like  a  child. 
I  surprise  myself  as  much  as  I  do  you ;  for  I  thought 
I  had  got  very  old,  and  I  did  n't  suppose  I  should  ever 
let  myself  go  in  this  way.  But  there  is  something 
about  this  that  lets  me  be  as  silly  as  I  like.  It's 
somehow  as  if  I  were  a  great  deal  more  alone  when 
I  'm  with  you  than  when  I  'm  by  myself !  How  does 
it  make  you  feel  ?  " 

"  Good ! "  he  answered,  and  that  satisfied  her  better 
than  if  he  had  entered  into  those  subtleties  which  she 
had  tried  to  express :  it  was  more  like  a  man.  He 
had  his  arm  about  her  again,  and  she  put  down  her 
hand  on  his  to  press  it  closer  against  her  heart. 

"  Of  course,"  she  explained,  recurring  to  his  sur- 
prise at  her  frolic  mood,  "  I  don't  expect  you  to  be 
silly  because  I  am." 

"  No,"  he  assented  ;  "  but  how  can  I  help  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  for  the  time  being ;  I  mean  gen- 


50  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

erally  speaking.  I  mean  that  I  care  for  you  because 
I  know  you  know  a  great  deal  more  than  I  do,  and 
because  I  respect  you.  I  know  that  everybody  ex- 
pects you  to  be  something  great,  and  I  do,  too." 

Bartley  did  not  deny  the  justness  of  her  opinions 
concerning  himself,  or  the  reasonableness  of  the  gen- 
eral expectation,  though  he  probably  could  not  see  the 
relation  of  these  cold  abstractions  to  the  pleasure  of 
sitting  there  with  a  pretty  girl  in  that  way.  But  he 
said  nothing. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  turning  her  face 
prettily  around  toward  him,  but  holding  it  a  little 
way  off,  to  secure  attention  as  impersonal  as  might  be 
under  the  circumstances,  "  what  pleased  me  more 
than  anything  else  you  ever  said  to  me  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  Bartley.  "  Something  you  got  out 
of  me  when  you  were  trying  to  make  me  tell  you  the 
difference  between  you  and  the  other  Equity  girls  ? " 

She  laughed,  in  glad  defiance  of  her  own  conscious- 
ness. "  Well,  I  was  trying  to  make  you  compliment 
me  ;  I  'm  not  going  to  deny  it.  But  I  must  say  I  got 
my  come-uppance  :  you  did  n't  say  a  thing  I  cared  for. 
But  you  did  afterward.  Don't  you  remember  ? " 

"No.     When?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  "When  you  told  me 
that  my  influence  had  —  had  —  made  you  better,  you 
know  —  " 

"Oh!"  said  Bartley.  "That!  Well,"  he  added, 
carelessly,  "  it 's  every  word  true.  Did  n't  you  be- 
lieve it  ? " 

"  I  was  just  as  glad  as  if  I  did  ;  and  it  made  me  re- 
solve never  to  do  or  say  a  thing  that  could  lower  youi 
opinion  of  me ;  and  then,  you  know,  there  at  the  door 
—  it  all  seemed  part  of  our  trying  to  make  each  other 
better.  But  when  father  looked  at  me  in  that  way, 
and  asked  me  if  we  were  engaged,  I  went  down  into 
the  dust  with  shame.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  51 

you  had  just  been  laughing  at  me,  and  amusing  your- 
self with  me,  and  I  was  so  furious  I  did  n't  know 
what  to  do.  Do  you  know  what  I  wanted  to  do  ? 
I  wanted  to  run  downstairs  to  father,  and  tell  him 
what  you  had  said,  and  ask  him  if  he  believed  you 
had  ever  liked  any  other  girl."  She  paused  a  little, 
but  he  did  not  answer,  and  she  continued.  "  But  now 
I  'in  glad  I  did  n't.  And  I  shall  never  ask  you  that, 
and  I  shall  not  care  for  anything  that  you  —  that 's 
happened  before  to-day.  It 's  all  right.  And  you  do 
think  I  shall  always  try  to  make  you  good  and  happy, 
don't  you  ? " 

"I  don't  think  you  can  make  me  much  happier 
than  I  am  at  present,  and  I  don't  believe  anybody 
could  make  me  feel  better,"  answered  Bartley. 

She  gave  a  little  laugh  at  his  refusal  to  be  serious, 
and  let  her  head,  for  fondness,  fall  upon  his  shoulder, 
while  he  turned  round  and  round  a  ring  he  found  on 
her  finger. 

"  Ah,  ha ! "  he  said,  after  a  while.  "  Who  gave  you 
this  ring,  Miss  Gaylord  ? " 

"  Father,  Christmas  before  last,"  she  promptly  an- 
swered, without  moving.  "  I  'm  glad  you  asked,"  she 
murmured,  in  a  lower  voice,  full  of  pride  in  the 
maiden  love  she  could  give  him.  "There's  never 
been  any  one  but  you,  or  the  thought  of  any  one." 
She  suddenly  started  away. 

"Now,  let's  play  we're  getting  dinner."  It  was 
quite  time ;  in  the  next  moment  the  coffee  boiled  up, 
and  if  she  had  not  caught  the  lid  off  and  stirred  it 
down  with  her  spoon,  it  would  have  been  spoiled. 
The  steam  ascended  to  the  ceiling,  and  filled  the 
kitchen  with  the  fragrant  smell  of  the  berry. 

"  I  'm  glad  we  're  going  to  have  coffee,"  she  said. 
"You'll  have  to  put  up  with  a  cold  dinner,  except 
potatoes.  But  the  coffee  will  make  up,  and  I  shall 
need  a  cup  to  keep  me  awake.  I  don't  believe  I 


52  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

slept  last  night  till  nearly  morning.  Do  you  like 
coffee  ? " 

"  I  'd  have  given  all  I  ever  expect  to  be  worth  foi 
a  cup  of  it,  last  night,"  he  said.  "I  was  awfully 
hungry  when  I  got  back  to  the  hotel,  and  I  could  n't 
find  anything  but  a  piece  of  mince-pie  and  some  old 
cheese,  and  I  had  to  be  content  with  cold  milk.  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  lost  all  my  friends  this  morning 
when  I  woke  up." 

A  sense  of  remembered  grievance  trembled  in  his 
voice,  and  made  her  drop  her  head  on  his  arm,  in  pity 
and  derision  of  him.  "  Poor  Bartley ! "  she  cried. 
"  And  you  came  up  here  for  a  little  petting  from  me, 
did  n't  you  ?  I  've  noticed  that  in  you !  Well,  you 
did  n't  get  it,  did  you  ? " 

"  Well,  not  at  first,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  you  can't  complain  of  any  want  of  petting 
at  last,"  she  returned,  delighted  at  his  indirect  recog- 
nition of  the  difference.  Then  the  daring,  the  arch- 
ness, and  caprice  that  make  coquetry  in  some  women, 
and  lurk  a  divine  possibility  in  all,  came  out  in  her ; 
the  sweetness,  kept  back  by  the  whole  strength  of 
her  pride,  overflowed  that  broken  barrier  now,  and 
she  seemed  to  lavish  this  revelation  of  herself  upon 
him  with  a  sort  of  tender  joy  in  his  bewilderment. 
She  was  not  hurt  when  he  crudely  expressed  the  elu- 
sive sense  which  has  been  in  other  men's  minds  at 
such  times :  they  cannot  believe  that  this  fascination 
is  inspired,  and  not  practised. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  'in  glad  you  told  me  that  I  was 
the  first.  I  should  have  thought  you  'd  had  a  good 
deal  of  experience  in  flirtation." 

"  You  would  n't  have  thought  so  if  you  had  n't 
been  a  great  flirt  yourself,"  she  answered,  auda- 
ciously. "  Perhaps  I  have  been  engaged  before ! " 

Their  talk  was  for  the  most  part  frivolous,  and  their 
thoughts  ephemeral ;  but  again  they  were,  with  her 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  53 

at  least,  suddenly  and  deeply  serious.  Till  then  all 
things  seemed  to  have  been  held  in  arrest,  and  im- 
pressions, ideas,  feelings,  fears,  desires,  released  them- 
selves simultaneously,  and  sought  expression  with  a 
rush  that  defied  coherence.  "  Oh,  why  do  we  try  to 
talk  ? "  she  asked,  at  last.  "  The  more  we  say,  the 
more  we  leave  unsaid.  Let  us  keep  still  awhile ! " 
But  she  could  not.  "  Bartley  !  When  did  you  first 
think  you  cared  about  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Bartley,  "  I  guess  it  must  have 
been  the  first  time  I  saw  you." 

"  Yes,  that  is  when  I  first  knew  that  I  cared  for 
you.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  I  must  have  always 
cared  for  you,  and  that  I  only  found  it  out  when  I  saw 
you  going  by  the  house  that  day."  She  mused  a  little 
time  before  she  asked  again,  "  Bartley  ! " 

"Well?" 

"  Did  you  ever  use  to  be  afraid  —  Or,  no  !  Wait ! 
1 11  tell  you  first,  and  then  I  '11  ask  you.  I  'm  not 
ashamed  of  it  now,  though  once  I  thought  I  could  n't 
bear  to  have  any  one  find  it  out.  I  used  to  be  aw- 
fully afraid  you  did  n't  care  for  me  !  I  would  try  to 
make  out,  from  things  you  did  and  said,  whether  you 
did  or  not;  but  I  never  could  be  certain.  I  believe  I 
used  to  find  the  most  comfort  in  discouraging  myself. 
I  used  to  say  to  myself,  '  Why,  of  course  he  does  n't ! 
How  can  he  ?  He 's  been  everywhere,  and  he 's  seen 
so  many  girls.  He  corresponds  with  lots  of  them. 
Altogether  likely  he 's  engaged  to  some  of  the  young 
ladies  he 's  met  in  Boston ;  and  he  just  goes  with  me 
here  for  a  blind.'  And  then  when  you  would  praise 
me,  sometimes,  I  would  just  say,  '  Oh,  he 's  compli- 
mented plenty  of  girls.  I  know  he 's  thinking  this 
instant  of  the  young  lady  he 's  engaged  to  in  Boston/ 
And  it  would  almost  kill  me ;  and  when  you  did 
some  little  thing  to  show  that  you  liked  me,  I  would 
think,  '  He  does  n't  like  me  !  He  hates,  he  despises 


54  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

me.  He  does,  he  does,  he  does ! '  And  I  would  go 
on  that  way,  with  my  teeth  shut,  and  my  breath  held, 
I  don't  know  Jww  long."  Bartley  broke  out  into  a 
broad  laugh  at  this  image  of  desperation,  but  she 
added,  tenderly,  "  I  hope  I  never  made  you  suffer  in 
that  way  ? " 

"  What  way  ? "  he  asked. 

"That's  what  I  wanted  you  to  tell  me.  Did  you 
ever  —  did  you  use  to  be  afraid  sometimes  that  I  — 
that  you  —  did  you  put  off  telling  me  that  you  cared 
for  me  so  long  because  you  thought,  you  dreaded  — 
Oh,  I  don't  see  what  I  can  ever  do  to  make  it  up  to 
you  if  you  did !  Were  you  afraid  I  did  n't  care  for 
you?" 

"  No  ! "  shouted  Bartley.  She  had  risen  and  stood 
before  him  in  the  fervor  of  her  entreaty,  and  he  seized 
her  arms,  pinioning  them  to  her  side,  and  holding  her 
helpless,  while  he  laughed,  and  laughed  again.  "  I 
knew  you  were  dead  in  love  with  me  from  the  first 
moment." 

"  Bartley !  Bartley  Hubbard ! "  she  exclaimed  ; 
"  let  me  go,  — let  me  go,  this  instant !  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  shameless  thing ! " 

But  she  really  made  no  effort  to  escape. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  55 


V. 


THE  house  seemed  too  little  for  Marcia's  happiness, 
and  after  dinner  she  did  not  let  Bartley  forget  his  last 
night's  engagement.  She  sent  him  off  to  get  his  horse 
at  the  hotel,  and  ran  up  to  her  room  to  put  on  her 
wraps  for  the  drive.  Her  mother  cleared  away  the 
dinner  things ;  she  pushed  the  table  to  the  side  of  the 
room,  and  then  sat  down  in  her  feather-cushioned 
chair  and  waited  her  husband's  pleasure  to  speak. 
He  ordinarily  rose  from  the  Sunday  dinner  and  went 
back  to  his  office ;  to-day  he  had  taken  a  chair  before 
the  stove.  But  he  had  mechanically  put  his  hat  on, 
and  he  wore  it  pushed  off  his  forehead  as  he  tilted 
his  chair  back  on  its  hind  legs,  and  braced  himself 
against  the  hearth  of  the  stove  with  his  feet. 

A  man  is  master  in  his  own  house  generally 
through  the  exercise  of  a  certain  degree  of  brutality, 
but  Squire  Gaylord  maintained  his  predominance  by 
an  enlightened  absenteeism.  No  man  living  always 
at  home  was  ever  so  little  under  his  own  roof.  While 
he  was  in  more  active  business  life,  he  had  kept  an 
office  in  the  heart  of  the  village,  where  he  spent  all 
his  days,  and  a  great  part  of  every  night;  but  after 
he  had  become  rich  enough  to  risk  whatever  loss  of 
business  the  change  might  involve,  he  bought  this 
large  old  square  house  on  the  border  of  the  village, 
and  thenceforth  made  his  home  in  the  little  detached 
office. 

If  Mrs,  Gaylord  had  dimly  imagined  that  she 
ehould  see  something  more  of  him,  having  him  so  near 


56  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

at  hand,  she  really  saw  less  :  there  was  no  weather, 
by  day  or  night,  in  which  he  could  not  go  to  his  office, 
now.  He  went  no  more  than  his  wife  into  the  village 
society ;  she  might  have  been  glad  now  and  then  of  a 
little  glimpse  of  the  world,  but  she  never  said  so,  and 
her  social  life  had  ceased,  like  her  religious  life.  Their 
house  was  richly  furnished  according  to  the  local 
taste  of  the  time ;  the  parlor  had  a  Brussels  carpet, 
and  heavy  chairs  of  mahogany  and  hair- cloth;  Marcia 
had  a  piano  there,  and  since  she  had  come  home  from 
school  they  had  made  company,  as  Mrs.  Gaylord 
called  it,  two  or  three  times  for  her ;  but  they  had 
held  aloof  from  the  festivity,  the  Squire  in  his  office, 
and  Mrs.  Gaylord  in  the  family  room  where  they  now 
sat  in  unwonted  companionship. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Gaylord,"  said  his  wife,  "  I  don't  know 
as  you  can  say  but  what  Marcia  's  suited  well 
enough." 

This  was  the  first  allusion  they  had  made  to  the 
subject,  but  she  let  it  take  the  argumentative  form  of 
her  cogitations. 

"  M-yes,"  sighed  the  Squire,  in  long,  nasal  assent, 
"most  too  well,  if  anything."  He  rasped  first  one 
unshaven  cheek  and  then  the  other,  with  his  thin, 
quivering  hand. 

"  He  's  smart  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Gaylord,  as  be- 
fore. 

"  M-yes,  most  too  smart,"  replied  her  husband,  a 
little  more  quickly  than  before.  "  He  's  smart  enough 
even  if  she  was  n't,  to  see  from  the  start  that  she  was 
crazy  to  have  him,  and  that  is  n't  the  best  way  to 
begin  life  for  a  married  couple,  if  I  'm  a  judge." 

"  It  would  killed  her  if  she  had  n't  got  him.  I  could 
see  't  was  weariri'  on  her  every  day,  more  and  more. 
She  used  to  fairly  jump,  every  knock  she  'd  hear  at 
the  door ;  and  I  know  sometimes,  when  she  was  afraid 
he  wa'  n't  coming,  she  used  to  go  out,  in  hopes  't  sbe 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  57 

eh'd  meet  him :  I  don't  suppose  she  allowed  to  herself 
that  she  did  it  for  that  —  Marcia  's  proud." 

"  M-yes,"  said  the  Squire,  "  she  's  proud.  And 
when  a  proud  girl  makes  a  fool  of  herself  about  a 
fellow,  it  's  a  matter  of  life  and  death  with  her.  She 
can't  help  herself.  She  lets  go  everything." 

"  I  declare,"  Mrs.  Gaylord  went  on,  "  it  worked  me 
up  considerable  to  have  her  come  in  some  those  times, 
and  see  by  her  face  't  she  'd  seen  him  with  some  the 
other  girls.  She  used  to  look  so  !  And  then  I  'd  hear 
her  up  in  her  room,  cryin'  and  cryin'.  I  shouldn't 
cared  so  much,  if  Marcia  'd  been  like  any  other  girl, 
kind  of  flirty,  like,  about  it.  But  she  wa'n't.  She 
was  just  bowed  down  before  her  idol." 

A  final  assent  came  from  the  Squire,  as  if  wrung 
out  of  his  heart,  and  he  rose  from  his  chair,  and  then 
sat  down  again.  Marcia  was  his  child,  and  he  loved 
her  with  his  whole  soul.  "  M-well  \ "  he  deeply 
sighed,  "  all  that  part 's  over,  anyway,"  but  he  tingled 
in  an  anguish  of  sympathy  with  what  she  had  suffered. 
"  You  see,  Miranda,  how  she  looked  at  me  when  she 
first  came  in  with  him,  —  so  proud  and  independ- 
ent, poor  girl !  and  yet  as  if  she  was  afraid  I  might  rit 
like  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  see  it." 

He  pulled  his  hat  far  down  over  his  cavernous  eyes, 
aad  worked  his  thin,  rusty  old  jaws. 

"  I  hope 't  she  '11  be  able  to  school  herself,  so 's  t'  not 
show  out  her  feelings  so  much,"  said  Mrs.  Gaylord. 

"  I  wish  she  could  school  herself  so  as  to  not  have 
'em  so  much ;  but  I  guess  she  '11  have  'em,  and  I 
guess  she  '11  show  'em  out."  They  were  both  silent ; 
after  a  while  he  added,  throwing  at  the  stove  a  minute 
fragment  of  the  cane  he  had  pulled  off  the  seat  of  his 
chair:  "Miranda,  I've  expected  something  of  this 
sort  a  good  while,  and  I  Ve  thought  over  what  Bart- 
ley  had  better  do." 


58  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

Mrs.  Gaylord  stooped  forward  and  picked  up  the 
bit  of  wood  which  her  husband  had  thrown  down; 
her  vigilance  was  rewarded  by  finding  a  thread  on  the 
oil-cloth  near  where  it  lay ;  she  whipped  this  round 
her  finger,  and  her  husband  continued  :  "  He  'd  better 
give  up  his  paper  and  go  into  the  law.  He  's  done 
well  in  the  paper,  and  he  's  a  smart  writer ;  but  edit- 
ing a  newspaper  aint  any  work  for  a  man.  It 's  all 
well  enough  as  long  as  he  's  single,  but  when  he  's  got 
a  wife  to  look  after,  he  'd  better  get  down  to  work. 
My  business  is  in  just  such  a  shape  now  that  I  could 
hand  it  over  to  him  in  a  lump  ;  but  come  to  wait  a 
year  or  two  longer,  and  this  young  man  and  that  one  '11 
eat  into  it,  and  it  won't  be  the  same  thing  at  all. 
I  shall  want  Bartley  to  push  right  along,  and  get  ad- 
mitted at  once.  He  can  do  it,  fast  enough.  He  's 
bright  enough,"  added  the  old  man,  with  a  certain 
grimness.  "  M-well ! "  he  broke  out,  with  a  quick 
sigh,  after  a  moment  of  musing  ;  "  it  has  n't  happened 
at  any  very  bad  time.  I  was  just  thinking,  this 
morning,  that  I  should  like  to  have  my  whole  time, 
pretty  soon,  to  look  after  my  property.  I  sha'n't  want 
Bartley  to  do  that  for  me.  I  '11  give  him  a  good  start  in 
money  and  in  business  ;  but  I  '11  look  after  my  prop- 
erty myself.  I  '11  speak  to  him,  the  first  chance  I  get." 

A  light  step  sounded  on  the  stairs,  and  Marcia 
burst  into  the  room,  ready  for  her  drive.  "I  wanted 
to  get  a  good  warm  before  I  started,"  she  explained, 
stooping  before  the  stove,  and  supporting  herself  with 
one  hand  on  her  father's  knee.  There  had  been  no 
formal  congratulations  upon  her  engagement  from 
either  of  her  parents ;  but  this  was  not  requisite,  and 
would  have  been  a  little  affected ;  they  were  perhaps 
now  ashamed  to  mention  it  outright  before  her  alone. 
The  Squire,  however,  went  so  far  as  to  put  his  hand 
over  the  hand  she  had  laid  upon  his  knee,  and  to 
smooth  it  twice  or  thrice. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  59 

•*  You  going  to  ride  after  that  sorrel  colt  of  Bart- 
ley's  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Of  course  ! "  she  answered,  with  playful  pertness, 
"  I  guess  Bartley  can  manage  the  sorrel  colt !  He 's 
never  had  any  trouble  yet." 

"  He  's  always  been  able  to  give  his  whole  mind  to 
him  before,"  said  the  Squire.  He  gave  Marcia's  hand 
a  significant  squeeze,  and  let  it  go. 

She  would  not  confess  her  consciousness  of  his 
meaning  at  once.  She  looked  up  at  the  clock,  and 
then  turned  and  pulled  her  father's  watch  out  of  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  and  compared  the  time.  "Why, 
you  're  both  fast ! " 

"  Perhaps  Bartley 's  slow,"  said  the  Squire ;  and 
having  gone  as  far  as  he  intended  in  this  direction, 
he  permitted  himself  a  low  chuckle. 

The  sleigh-bells  jing'ed  without,  and  she  sprang 
lightly  to  her  feet.  "  I  guess  you  don't  think  Bart- 
ley 's  slow,"  she  exclaimed,  and  hung  over  her  father 
long  enough  to  rub  her  lips  against  his  bristly  cheek. 
"  By,  mother,"  she  said,  over  her  shoulder,  and  went, 
out  of  the  room.  She  let  her  muff  hang  as  far  down 
in  front  of  her  as  her  arms  would  reach,  in  a  stylish 
way,  and  moved  with  a  little  rhythmical  tilt,  as  if  to 
some  inner  music.  Even  in  her  furs  she  was  elegantly 
slender  in  shape. 

The  old  people  remained  silent  and  motionless  till 
the  clash  of  the  bells  died  away.  Then  the  Squire 
rose,  and  went  to  the  wood-shed  beyond  the  kitchen, 
whence  he  reappeared  with  an  armful  of  wood.  His 
wife  started  at  the  sight.  "  Mr.  Gaylord,  what  be  you 
doin'?" 

"  Oh,  I  'm  going  to  make  'dm  up  a  little  fire  in  the 
parlor  stove.  I  guess  they  won't  want  us  round  a 
great  deal,  when  they  come  back." 

Mrs.  Gaylord  said,  "  Well,  I  never  did!"  When 
.her  husband  returned  from  the  parlor,  she  added,  "  J 


60  A   MODERN  INSTANCE. 

suppose  some  folks  'd  say  it  was  rather  of  a  strange 
way  ot  spendin'  the  Sabbath." 

"  It  "s  a  very  good  way  of  spending  the  Sabbath. 
Fou  don't  suppose  that  any  of  the  people  in  church 
are  half  as  happy,  do  you  ?  Why,  old  Jonathan  Ed- 
wards himself  used  to  allow  '  all  proper  opportunity ' 
for  the  young  fellows  that  come  to  see  his  girls,  '  and 
a  room  and  fire,  if  needed.'  His  '  Life  '  says  so." 

"  I  guess  he  did  n't  allow  it  on  the  Sabbath,"  re- 
torted Mrs.  Gaylord. 

"Well,  the  '  Life'  don't  say,"  chuckled  the  Squire. 
"  Why,  Miranda,  I  do  it  for  Marcia  !  There  's  never 
but  one  first  day  to  an  engagement.  You  know  that 
as  well  as  I  do."  In  saying  this,  Squire  Gaylord  gave 
way  to  his  repressed  emotion  in  an  extravagance. 
He  suddenly  stooped  over  and  kissed  his  wife ;  but 
he  spared  her  confusion  by  going  out  to  his  office  at 
once,  where  he  stayed  the  whole  afternoon. 

Bartley  and  Marcia  took  the  "  Long  Drive,"  as  it 
was  called,  at  Equity.  The  road  plunged  into  the 
darkly  wooded  gulch  beyond  the  house,  and  then 
struck  away  eastward,  crossing  loop  after  loop  of  the 
river  on  the  covered  bridges,  where  the  neighbors, 
who  had  broken  it  out  with  their  ox-teams  in  the 
open,  had  thickly  bedded  it  in  snow.  In  the  valleys 
and  sheltered  spots  it  remained  free,  and  so  wide  that 
encountering  teams  could  easily  pass  each  other ;  but 
where  it  climbed  a  hill,  or  crossed  a  treeless  level,  it 
was  narrowed  to  a  single  track,  with  turn-outs  at  es- 
tablished points,  where  the  drivers  of  the  sleighs 
waited  to  be  sure  that  the  stretch  beyond  was  clear 
before  going  forward.  In  the  country,  the  winter 
which  held  the  village  in  such  close  siege  was  an 
occupation  under  which  Nature  seemed  to  cower  help- 
less, and  men  made  a  desperate  and  ineffectual 
struggle.  The  houses,  banked  up  with  snow  almost 
to  the  sills  of  the  windows  that  looked  out,  bline  \vJta 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  61 

frost,  upon  tlie  lifeless  world,  were  dwarfed  in  the 
drifts,  and  seemed  to  founder  in  a  white  sea  blotched 
with  strange  bluish  shadows  under  the  slanting  sun» 
Where  they  fronted  close  upon  the  road,  it  was  evi- 
dent that  the  fight  with  the  snow  was  kept  up  un- 
relentingly ;  spaces  were  shovelled  out,  and  paths  were 
kept  open  to  the  middle  of  the  highway,  and  to  the 
barn ;  but  where  they  were  somewhat  removed,  there 
was  no  visible  trace  of  the  conflict,  and  no  sign  of  life 
except  the  faint,  wreathed  lines  of  smoke  wavering 
upward  from  the  chimneys. 

In  the  hollows  through  which  the  road  passed,  the 
lower  boughs  of  the  pines  and  hemlocks  were  weighed 
down  with  the  snow-fall  till  they  lay  half  submerged 
in  the  drifts ;  but  wherever  the  wind  could  strike 
them,  they  swung  free  of  this  load  and  met  in  low, 
flat  arches  above  the  track.  The  river  betrayed  itself 
only  when  the  swift  current  of  a  ripple  broke  through 
the  white  surface  in  long,  irregular,  grayish  blurs.  It 
was  all  wild  and  lonesome,  but  to  the  girl  alone  in  it 
with  her  lover,  the  solitude  was  sweet,  and  she  did 
not  wish  to  speak  even  to  him.  His  hands  were  both 
busy  with  the  reins,  but  it  was  agreed  between  them 
that  she  might  lock  hers  through  his  arm.  Cowering 
close  to  him  under  the  robes,  she  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder  and  looked  out  over  the  flying  landscape  in 
measureless  content,  and  smiled,  with  filling  eyes, 
when  he  bent  over,  and  warmed  his  cold  red  cheek 
on  the  top  of  her  fur  cap. 

The  moments  of  bliss  that  silence  a  woman  rouse 
a  man  to  make  sure  of  his  rapture.  "  How  do  you 
like  it,  Marsh  ?  "  he  asked,  trying  at  one  of  these  times 
to  peer  round  into  her  face.  "  Are  you  afraid  ? " 

"  No,  —  only  of  getting  back  too  soon. " 

He  made  the  shivering  echoes  answer  with  his 
delight  in  this,  and  chirruped  to  the  colt,  who  pushed 
forward  at  a  wilder  speed,  flinging  his  hoofs  out 


62  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

before  him  with  the  straight  thrust  of  the  born  trotten 
and  seeming  to  overtake  them  as  they  flew.  "  I 
should  like  this  ride  to  last  forever  !  " 

'*  Forever  ! "  she  repeated.  "  That  would  do  for  a 
beginning. " 

"  Marsh !  What  a  girl  you  are  !  I  never  supposed 
you  would  be  so  free  to  let  a  fellow  know  how  much 
you  cared  for  him." 

"Neither  did  I,"  she  answered  dreamily.  "But 
iiow  —  now  the  only  trouble  is  that  I  don't  know 
how  to  let  him  know."  She  gave  his  arm  to  which 
she  clung  a  little  convulsive  clutch,  and  pressed  her 
head  harder  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Well,  that's  pretty  much  my  complaint,  too,"  said 
Bartley, "  though  I  could  n't  have  expressed  it  so  well." 

"  Oh,  you  express  ! "  she  murmured,  with  the  pride 
in  him  which  implied  that  there  were  no  thoughts 
worth  expressing  to  which  he  could  not  give  a  monu- 
mental utterance.  Her  adoration  flattered  his  self- 
love  to  the  same  passionate  intensity,  and  to  some- 
thing like  the  generous  complexion  of  her  worship. 

"  Marcia,"  he  answered,  "  I  am  going  to  try  to  be 
all  you  expect  of  me.  And  I  hope  I  shall  never  do 
anything  unworthy  of  your  ideal." 

She  could  only  press  his  arm  again  in  speechless 
joy,  but  she  said  to  herself  that  she  should  always 
remember  these  words. 

The  wind  had  been  rising  ever  since  they  startec 
but  they  had  not  noticed  it  till  now,  when  the  woods 
began  to  thin  away  on  either  side,  and  he  stopped 
before  striking  out  over  one  of  the  naked  stretches 
of  the  plain, —  a  white  waste  swept  by  the  blasts 
that  sucked  down  through  a  gorge  of  the  mountain, 
and  flattened  the  snow-drifts  as  the  tornado  flattens 
the  waves.  Across  this  expanse  ran  the  road,  its  stiff 
lines  obliterated  here  and  there,  in  the  slight  depres- 
sions, and  showing  dark  along  the  rest  of  the  track. 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  63 

It  was  a  good  half-mile  to  the  next  body  of  woods, 
and  midway  there  was  one  of  those  sidings  where  a 
sleigh  approaching  from  the  other  quarter  must  turn 
out  and  yield  the  right  of  way.  Bartley  stopped  his 
colt,  and  scanned  the  road. 

"  Anybody  coming  ?  "  asked  Marcia. 

"  No,  I  don't  see  any  one.  But  if  there 's  any  one 
in  the  woods  yonder,  they  'd  better  wait  till  I  get 
across.  No  horse  in  Equity  can  beat  this  colt  to  the 
turn-out." 

"Oh,  well,  look  carefully,  Bartley.  If  we  met 
any  one  beyond  the  turn-out,  I  don 't  know  what  I 
should  do,"  pleaded  the  girl. 

"  I  don't  know  what  they  would  do,"  said  Bartley. 
"  But  it 's  their  lookout  now,  if  they  come.  Wrap 
your  face  up  well,  or  put  your  head  under  the  robe. 
I  Ve  got  to  hold  my  breath  the  next  half-mile."  He 
loosed  the  reins,  and  sped  the  colt  out  of  the  shel- 
ter where  he  had  halted.  The  wind  struck  them  like 
an  edge  of  steel,  and,  catching  the  powdery  snow  that 
their  horse's  hoofs  beat  up,  sent  it  spinning  and  swirl- 
ing far  along  the  glistening  levels  on  their  lee.  They 
felt  the  thrill  of  the  go  as  if  they  were  in  some  light 
boat  leaping  over  a  swift  current.  Marcia  disdained 
to  cover  her  face,  if  he  must  confront  the  wind,  but 
after  a  few  gasps  she  was  glad  to  bend  forward,  and 
bury  it  in  the  long  hair  of  the  bearskin  robe.  When 
she  lifted  it,  they  were  already  past  the  siding,  and 
she  saw  a  cutter  dashing  toward  them  from  the 
cover  of  the  woods.  "  Bartley ! "'  she  screamed,  "  the 
sleigh!" 

"  Yes,"  he  shouted.  "  Some  fool !  There 's  going  to 
be  trouble  here,"  he  added,  checking  hia  horse  as  he 
pould.  "  They  don't  seem  to  know  how  to  manage  — 
It 's  a  couple  of  women !  Hold  on  !  hold  on ! "  he 
called.  "  Don't  try  to  turn  out !  1 11  turn  out ! " 

The  women  pulled  their  horse's  head  this  way  and 


64  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

that,  in  apparent  confusion,  and  then  began  to  turn 
out  into  the  trackless  snow  at  the  roadside,  in  spite 
of  Bartley's  frantic  efforts  to  arrest  them.  They  sank 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  drift ;  their  horse  plunged 
and  struggled,  and  then  their  cutter  went  over,  amidst 
their  shrieks  and  cries  for  help. 

Bartley  drove  up  abreast  of  the  wreck,  and,  saying, 
"  Still,  Jerry !  Don't  be  afraid,  Marcia," —  he  put  the 
reins  into  her  hands,  and  sprang  out  to  the  rescue. 

One  of  the  women  had  been  flung  out  free  of  the 
sleigh,  and  had  already  gathered  herself  up,  and  stood 
crying  and  wringing  her  hands ;  "  Oh,  Mr.  Hubbard, 
Mr.  Hubbard !  Help  Hannah  !  she  's  under  there  !" 

"  All  right !  Keep  quiet,  Mrs.  Morrison  !  Take  hold 
of  your  horse's  head ! "  Bartley  had  first  of  all  seized 
him  by  the  bit,  and  pulled  him  to  his  feet ;  he  was 
old  and  experienced  in  obedience,  and  he  now  stood 
waiting  orders,  patiently  enough.  Bartley  seized  the 
cutter  and  by  an  effort  of  all  his  strength  righted  it. 
The  colt  started  and  trembled,  but  Marcia  called 
to  him  in  Bartley's  tone,  "  Still,  Jerry  ! "  and  he 
obeyed  her. 

The  girl,  who  had  been  caught  under  the  over- 
turned cutter,  escaped  like  a  wild  thing  out  of  a  trap, 
when  it  was  lifted,  and,  plunging  some  paces  away, 
faced  round  upon  her  rescuer  with  the  hood  pulled 
straight  and  set  comely  to  her  face  again,  almost 
before  he  could  ask,  "  Any  bones  broken,  Hannah  ?  " 

"  No  /"  she  shouted.  "  Mother !  mother !  stop  cry- 
ing !  Don't  you  see  I  'm  not  dead  ? "  She  leaped 
about,  catching  up  this  wrap  and  that,  shaking  the 
dry  snow  out  of  them,  and  flinging  them  back  into 
the  cutter,  while  she  laughed  in  the  wild  tumult  of 
her  spirits.  Bartley  helped  her  pick  up  the  frag- 
ments of  the  wreck,  and  joined  her  in  making  fun  of 
the  adventure.  The  wind  hustled  them,  but  they 
were  warm  in  defiance  of  it  with  their  jollity  and 
their  bustle. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  65 

"  Why  did  n't  you  let  me  turn  out  ? "  deinanded 
Hartley,  as  he  and  the  girl  stood  on  opposite  sides  of. 
the  cutter,  rearranging  the  robes  in  it. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  I  could  turn  out  well  enough.  You 
had  a  right  to  the  road." 

"  Well,  the  next  time  you  see  any  one  past  the 
turn-out,  you  better  not  start  from  the  woods." 

"  Why,  there 's  no  more  room  in  the  woods  to  get 
past  than  there  is  here,"  cried  the  girl. 

"  There  's  more  shelter." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  not  cold !  "  She  flashed  a  look  at  him 
from  her  brilliant  face,  warm  with  all  the  glow  of  her 
young  health,  and  laughed,  and  before  she  dropped 
her  eyes,  she  included  Marcia  in  her  glance.  They 
had  already  looked  at  each  other  without  any  sign  of 
recognition.  "  Come,  mother !  All  right,  now  ! " 

Her  mother  left  the  horse's  head,  and,  heavily 
ploughing  back  to  the  cutter,  tumbled  herself  in.  The 
girl,  from  her  side,  began  to  climb  in,  but  her  weight 
made  the  sleigh  careen,  and  she  dropped  down  with 
a  gay  shriek. 

Bartley  came  round  and  lifted  her  in ;  the  girl 
called  to  her  horse,  and  drove  up  into  the  road  and 
away. 

Bartley  looked  after  her  a  moment,  and  continued 
to  glance  in  that  direction  when  he  stood  stamping 
the  snow  off  his  feet,  and  brushing  it  from  his  legs 
and  arms,  before  he  remounted  to  Marcia's  side.  He 
was  excited,  and  talked  rapidly  and  loudly,  as  he  took 
the  reins  from  Marcia's  passive  hold,  and  let  the  colt 
out.  "  That  girl  is  the  pluckiest  fool,  yet !  Would  n't 
let  me  turn  out  because  I  had  the  right  of  way! 
And  she  wasn't  going  to  let  anybody  else  have  a 
hand  in  getting  that  old  ark  of  theirs  afloat  again. 
Good  their  horse  was  n't  anything  like  Jerry  !  How 
well  Jerry  behaved  !  Were  you  frightened,  Marsh  ? " 
He  bent  over  to  see  her  face,  but  she  had  not  her 

5 


66  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

fiead  on  his  shoulder,  and  she  did  not  sit  close  to 
him,  now.  "  Did  you  freeze  ? " 

"  Oh,  no !  I  got  along  very  well,"  she  answered, 
dryly,  and  edged  away  as  far  as  the  width  of  the  seat 
would  permit.  "  It  would  have  been  better  for  you 
to  lead  their  horse  up  into  the  road,  and  then  she 
could  have  got  in  without  your  help.  Her  mother 
got  in  alone." 

He  took  the  reins  into  his  left  hand,  and,  passing 
his  strong  right  around  her,  pulled  her  up  to  his 
side.  She  resisted,  with  diminishing  force ;  at  last 
she  ceased  to  resist,  and  her  head  fell  passively  to 
its  former  place  on  his  shoulder.  He  did  not  try  to 
speak  any  word  of  comfort ;  he  only  held  her  close 
to  him ;  when  she  looked  up,  as  they  entered  the  vil- 
lage, she  confronted  him  with  a  brilliant  smile  that 
ignored  her  tears. 

But  that  night,  when  she  followed  him  to  the  door, 
she  looked  him  search ingly  in  the  eyes.  "  I  wonder 
if  you  really  do  despise  me,  Bartley  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Certainly,"  he  answered,  with  a  jesting  smile. 
"What  for?" 

"  For  showing  out  my  feelings  so.  For  not  even 
trying  to  pretend  not  to  care  everything  for  you." 

"  It  would  n't  be  any  use  your  trying :  I  should 
know  that  you  did,  anyway." 

"  Oh,  don't  laugh,  Bartley,  don't  laugh !  I  don't 
believe  that  I  ought  to.  I've  heard  that  it  makes 
people  sick  of  you.  But  I  can't  help  it,  —  I  can't  help 
it !  And  if — if  you  think  I  'm  always  going  to  be 
so,  -—  and  that  I  'm  going  to  keep  on  getting  worse 
and  worse,  and  making  you  so  unhappy,  why,  you  'd 
better  break  your  engagement  now  —  while  you  have 
a  chance." 

"  What  have  you  been  making  me  unhappy  about,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?  I  thought  I  'd  been  having  a 
very  good  time." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  67 

She  hid  her  face  against  his  breast.  "It  almost 
killed  me  to  see  you  there  with  her.  I  was  so  cold, 
—  my  hands  were  half  frozen,  holding  the  reins,  — 
and  I  was  so  afraid  of  the  colt  I  did  n't  know  what  to 
do ;  and  I  had  been  keeping  up  my  courage  on  your 
account ;  and  you  seemed  so  long  about  it  all ;  and 
she  could  have  got  in  perfectly  well  —  as  well  as  hei 
mother  did  —  without  your  help  —  "  Her  voice 
broke  in  a  miserable  sob,  and  she  clutched  herself 
tighter  to  him. 

He  smoothed  down  her  hair  with  his  hand.  "  Why, 
Marsh !  Did  you  think  that  made  me  unhappy  ? 
/  didn't  mind  it  a  bit.  I  knew  what  the  trouble 
was,  at  the  time ;  but  I  was  n't  going  to  say  anything. 
I  knew  you  would  be  all  right  as  soon  as  you  could 
think  it  over.  You  don't  suppose  I  care  anything 
for  that  girl?" 

"No,"  answered  a  rueful  sob.  "But  I  wish  you 
did  n't  have  anything  to  do  with  her.  I  know  she  11 
make  trouble  for  you,  somehow." 

"  Well,"  said  Bartley,  "  I  can't  very  well  turn  her 
off  as  long  as  she  does  her  work.  But  you  need  n't 
be  worried  about  making  me  unhappy.  If  anything, 
I  rather  liked  it.  It  showed  how  much  you  did  care 
for  me."  He  bent  toward  her,  with  a  look  of  bright 
raillery,  for  the  parting  kiss.  "Now  then:  once, 
twice,  three  times,  —  and  good  night  it  is ! " 


68  A.  MODERN   INSTANCE. 


VI. 


THE  spectacle  of  a  love  affair  in  which  the  woman 
gives  more  of  her  heart  than  the  man  gives  of  his  is 
so  pitiable  that  we  are  apt  to  attribute  a  kind  of 
merit  to  her,  as  if  it  were  a  voluntary  self-sacrifice 
for  her  to  love  more  than  her  share.  Not  only  other 
men,  but  other  women,  look  on  with  this  canonizing 
compassion ;  for  women  have  a  lively  power  of  im- 
agining themselves  in  the  place  of  any  sister  who 
suffers  in  matters  of  sentiment,  and  are  eager  to 
espouse  the  common  cause  in  commiserating  her. 
Each  of  them  pictures  herself  similarly  wronged  or 
slighted  by  the  man  she  likes  best,  and  feels  how 
cruel  it  would  be  if  he  were  to  care  less  for  her  than 
she  for  him ;  and  for  the  time  being,  in  order  to  real- 
ize the  situation,  she  loads  him  with  all  the  sins  of 
omission  proper  to  the  culprit  in  the  alien  case. 
But  possibly  there  is  a  compensation  in  merely  lov- 
ing, even  where  the  love  given  is  out  of  all  propor- 
tion to  the  love  received. 

If  Bartley  Hubbard's  sensations  and  impressions  of 
the  day  had  been  at  all  reasoned,  that  night  as  he  lay 
thinking  it  over,  he  could  unquestionably  have  seen 
many  advantages  for  Marcia  in  the  affair,  —  perhaps 
more  than  for  himself.  But  to  do  him  justice  he  did 
not  formulate  these  now,  or  in  any  wise  explicitly 
recognize  the  favors  he  was  bestowing.  At  twenty- 
six  one  does  not  naturally  compute  them  in  musing 
upon  the  girl  to  whom  one  is  just  betrothed ;  and 
Hartley's  mind  was  a  confusion  of  pleasure.  He  liked 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  69 

so  well  to  think  how  fond  of  him  Marcia  was,  that  it 
lid  not  occur  to  him  then  to  question  whether  he 
svere  as  fond  of  her.  It  is  possible  that  as  he  drowsed, 
at  last,  there  floated  airily  through  the  consciousness 
which  was  melting  and  dispersing  itself  before  the 
approach  of  sleep,  an  intimation  from  somewhere  to 
some  one  that  perhaps  the  affair  need  not  be  consid- 
ered too  seriously.  But  in  that  mysterious  limbo 
one  cannot  be  sure  of  what  is  thought  and  what  is 
dreamed ;  and  Bartley  always  acquitted  himself,  and 
probably  with  justice,  of  any  want  of  seriousness. 

What  he  did  make  sure  of  when  he  woke  was  that 
he  was  still  out  of  sorts,  and  that  he  had  again  that 
dull  headache  ;  and  his  instant  longing  for  sympathy 
did  more  than  anything  else  to  convince  him  that  he 
really  loved  Marcia,  and  had  never,  in  his  obscurest 
or  remotest  feeling,  swerved  in  his  fealty  to  her.  In 
the  atmosphere  of  her  devotion  yesterday,  he  had  so 
wholly  forgotten  his  sufferings  that  he  had  imagined 
himself  well ;  but  now  he  found  that  he  was  not  well, 
and  he  began  to  believe  that  he  was  going  to  have 
what  the  country  people  call  a  fit  of  sickness.  He 
felt  that  he  ought  to  be  taken  care  of,  that  he  was  unfit 
to  work ;  and  in  his  vexation  at  not  being  able  to  go 
to  Marcia  for  comfort — it  really  amounted  to  nothing 
less  —  he  entered  upon  the  day's  affairs  with  fretful 
impatience. 

The  Free  Press  was  published  on  Tuesdays,  and 
Monday  was  always  a  busy  time  of  preparation.  The 
hands  were  apt  also  to  feel  the  demoralization  that 
follows  a  holiday,  even  when  it  has  been  a  holy  day. 
The  girls  who  set  the  type  of  the  Free  Press  had 
by  no  means  foregone  the  rights  and  privileges  of 
their  sex  in  espousing  their  art,  and  they  had  their 
beaux  on  Sunday  night  like  other  young  ladies.  It 
resulted  that  on  Monday  morning  they  were  nervous 
and  impatient,  alternating  between  fits  of  giggling 


fO  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

delight  in  the  interchange  of  fond  reminiscences,  and 
the  crossness  which  is  pretty  sure  to  disfigure  human 
behavior  from  want  of  sleep.  But  ordinarily  Bartlej 
got  on  very  well  with  them.  In  spite  of  the  assump- 
tion of  equality  between  all  classes  in  Equity,  they 
stood  in  secret  awe  of  his  personal  splendor,  and  the 
tradition  of  his  achievements  at  college  and  in  the 
great  world  ;  and  a  flattering  joke  or  a  sharp  sarcasm 
from  him  went  a  great  way  with  them.  Besides,  he 
had  an  efficient  lieutenant  in  Henry  Bird,  the  young 
printer  who  had  picked  up  his  trade  in  the  office,  and 
who  acted  as  Bartley's  foreman,  so  far  as  the  estab- 
lishment had  an  organization.  Bird  had  industry 
and  discipline  which  were  contagious,  and  that  love 
of  his  work  which  is  said  to  be  growing  rare  among 
artisans  in  the  modern  subdivision  of  trades.  This 
boy  —  for  he  was  only  nineteen  —  worked  at  his  craft 
early  and  late  out  of  pleasure  in  it.  He  seemed  one 
of  those  simple,  subordinate  natures  which  are  happy 
in  looking  up  to  whatever  assumes  to  be  above  them. 
He  exulted  to  serve  in  a  world  where  most  people 
prefer  to  be  served,  and  it  is  uncertain  whether  he 
liked  his  work  better  for  its  own  sake,  or  Bartley's, 
for  whom  he  did  it.  He  was  slight  and  rather  delicate 
in  health,  and  it  came  natural  for  Bartley  to  patronize 
him.  He  took  him  on  the  long  walks  of  which  he 
was  fond,  and  made  him  in  some  sort  his  humble  con- 
fidant, talking  to  him  of  himself  and  his  plans  with 
large  and  braggart  vagueness.  He  depended  upon 
Bird  in  a  great  many  things,  and  Bird  never  failed 
him ;  for  he  had  a  basis  of  constancy  that  was  im- 
movable. "No,"  said  a  philosopher  from  a  neigh- 
boring logging-camp,  who  used  to  hang  about  the 
printing-office  a  long  time  after  he  had  got  his  paper, 
"  there  aint  a  great  deal  of  natural  git  up  and  howl 
about  Henry ;  but  he  stays  put."  In  the  confidences 
which  Bartley  used  to  make  Bird,  he  promised  that, 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  71 

•when  he  left  the  newspaper  for  the  law,  he  would  sen 
that  no  one  else  succeeded  him.  The  young  fellow 
did  not  need  this  promise  to  make  him  Bartley's  fas' 
friend,  but  it  colored  his  affection  with  ambitious  en- 
thusiasm ;  to  edit  and  publish  a  newspaper,  —  his 
dreams  did  not  go  beyond  that :  to  devote  it  to  Bart- 
ley's  interest  in  the  political  life  on  which  Bartley 
often  hinted  he  might  enter,  —  that  would  be  the 
sweetest  privilege  of  realized  success.  Bird  already 
wrote  paragraphs  for  the  Free  Press,  and  Bartley  let 
him  make  up  a  column  of  news  from  the  city  ex- 
changes, which  was  partly  written  and  partly  se- 
lected. 

Bartley  came  to  the  office  rather  late  on  Monday 
morning,  bringing  with  him  the  papers  from  Satur- 
day night's  mail,  which  had  lain  unopened  over  Sun- 
day, and  went  directly  into  his  own  room,  without 
looking  into  the  printing-office.  He  felt  feverish  and 
irritable,  and  he  resolved  to  fill  up  with  selections  and 
let  his  editorial  paragraphing  go,  or  get  Bird  to  do 
it.  He  was  tired  of  the  work,  and  sick  of  Equity; 
Marcia's  face  seemed  to  look  sadly  in  upon  his 
angry  discontent,  and  he  no  longer  wished  to  go  to 
her  for  sympathy.  His  door  opened,  and,  without 
glancing  from  the  newspaper  which  he  held  up  be- 
fore him,  he  asked,  "  What  is  it,  Bird  ?  Do  you  want 
copy  ? " 

"Well, no,  Mr.  Hubbard,"  answered  Bird,  "we  have 
copy  enough  for  the  force  we  Ve  got  this  morning." 

"  Why,  what 's  up  ? "  demanded  Bartley,  dropping 
his  paper. 

"Lizzie  Sawyer  has  sent  word  that  she  is  sick, 
and  we  have  n't  heard  or  seen  anything  of  Hannah 
Morrison." 

"Confound  the  girls!"  said  Bartley,  "there's  al- 
ways something  the  matter  with  them."  He  rubbed 
his  hand  over  his  forehead,  as  if  to  rub  out  the  dull 


72  A.  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

pain  there.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  must  go  to  work 
myself,  then.  He  rose,  and  took  hold  of  the  lapels  of 
his  coat,  to  pull  it  off;  but  something  in  Bird's  look 
arrested  him.  "  What  is  it  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Old  Morrison  was  here,  just  before  you  came  in, 
and  said  he  wanted  to  see  you.  I  think  he  was 
drunk,"  said  Bird,  anxiously.  "  He  said  he  was  com- 
ing back  again." 

"All  right;  let  him  come,"  replied  Bartley.  " This, 
is  a  free  country,  —  especially  in  Equity.  I  suppose 
he  wants  Hannah's  wages  raised,  as  usual.  How 
much  are  we  behind  on  the  paper,  Henry  ? " 

"  We  're  not  a  great  deal  behind,  Mr.  Hubbard,  if 
we  were  not  so  weak-handed." 

"Perhaps  we  can  get  Hannah  back,  during  the 
forenoon.  At  any  rate,  we  can  ask  her  honored 
parent  when  he  comes." 

Where  Morrison  got  his  liquor  was  a  question  that 
agitated  Equity  from  time  to  time,  and  baffled  the 
officer  of  the  law  empowered  to  see  that  no  strong 
drink  came  into  the  town.  Under  conditions  which 
made  it  impossible  even  in  the  logging-camps,  and 
rendered  the  sale  of  spirits  too  precarious  for  the 
apothecary,  who  might  be  supposed  to  deal  in  them 
medicinally,  Morrison  never  failed  of  his  spree  when 
the  mysterious  mechanism  of  his  appetite  enforced  it. 
Probably  it  was  some  form  of  bedevilled  cider  that 
supplied  the  material  of  his  debauch ;  but  even  cider 
was  not  easily  to  be  had. 

Morrison's  spree  was  a  movable  feast,  and  recurred 
at  irregular  intervals  of  two,  or  three,  or  even  six 
weeks ;  but  it  recurred  often  enough  to  keep  him  poor, 
and  his  family  in  a  social  outlawry  against  which 
the  kindly  instincts  of  their  neighbors  struggled  in 
vain.  Mrs.  Morrison  was  that  pariah  who,  in  a  vil- 
lage like  Equity,  cuts  herself  off  from  hope  by  tak- 
ing in  washing ;  and  it  was  a  decided  rise  in  the 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE,  73 

world  for  Hannah,  a  wild  girl  at  school,  to  get  a  place 
in  the  printing-office.  Her  father  had  applied  for  it 
humbly  enough  at  the  tremulous  and  penitent  close 
of  one  of  his  long  sprees,  and  was  grateful  to  Bartley 
for  taking  the  special  interest  in  her  which  she  re- 
ported at  home. 

But  the  independence  of  a  drunken  shoemaker  is 
proverbial,  and  Morrison's  meek  spirit  soared  into 
lordly  arrogance  with  his  earliest  cups.  The  first 
warning  which  the  community  had  of  his  change  of 
attitude  was  the  conspicuous  and  even  defiant  closure 
of  his  shop,  and  the  scornful  rejection  of  custom,  how- 
ever urgent  or  necessitous.  All  Equity  might  go  in 
broken  shoes,  for  any  patching  or  half-soling  the 
people  got  from  him.  He  went  about  collecting  his 
small  dues,  and  paying  up  his  debts  as  long  as  the 
money  lasted,  in  token  of  his  resolution  not  to  take 
any  favors  from  any  man  thereafter.  Then  he  retired 
to  his  house  on  one  of  the  by  streets,  and  by  degrees 
drank  himself  past  active  offence.  It  was  of  course 
in  his  defiant  humor  that  he  came  to  visit  Bartley, 
who  had  learned  to  expect  him  whenever  Hannah 
failed  to  appear  promptly  at  her  work.  The  affair 
was  always  easily  arranged.  Bartley  instantly  as- 
sented, with  whatever  irony  he  liked,  to  Morrison's 
demands ;  he  refused  with  overwhelming  politeness 
even  to  permit  him  to  give  himself  the  trouble  to 
support  them  by  argument ;  he  complimented  Hannah 
inordinately  as  one  of  the  most  gifted  and  accom- 
plished ladies  of  his  acquaintance,  and  inquired  affec- 
tionately after  the  health  of  each  member  of  the  Mor- 
rison family.  When  Morrison  rose  to  go  he  always 
said,  in  shaking  hands,  "  Well,  sir,  if  there  was  more 
like  you  in  Equity  a  poor  man  could  get  along.  You  're 
a  gentleman,  sir."  After  getting  some  paces  away 
from  the  street  door,  he  stumbled  back  up  the  stairs 
to  repeat,  "  You  're  a  gentleman ! "  Hannah  came 


74  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

during  the  day,  and  the  wages  remained  the  same : 
neither  of  the  contracting  parties  regarded  the  in- 
crease  so  elaborately  agreed  upon,  and  Morrison,  on 
becoming  sober,  gratefully  ignored  the  whole  trans- 
action, though,  by  a  curious  juggle  of  his  brain,  he 
recurred  to  it  in  his  next  spree,  and  advanced  in  his 
new  demand  from  the  last  rise :  his  daughter  was  now 
nominally  in  receipt  of  an  income  of  forty  dollars  a 
week,  but  actually  accepted  four. 

Bartley,  on  his  part,  enjoyed  the  business  as  an 
agreeable  excitement  and  a  welcome  relief  from  the 
monotony  of  his  official  life.  He  never  hurried  Mor- 
rison's visits,  but  amused  himself  by  treating  him 
with  the  most  flattering  distinction,  and  baffling  his 
arrogance  by  immediate  concession.  But  this  morn- 
ing, when  Morrison  came  back  with  a  front  of  un- 
common fierceness,  he  merely  looked  up  from  his 
newspapers,  to  which  he  had  recurred,  and  said  coolly, 
"  Oh,  Mr.  Morrison  !  Good  morning.  I  suppose  it 's 
that  little  advance  that  you  wish  to  see  me  about. 
Take  a  chair.  What  is  the  increase  you  ask  this 
time  ?  Of  course  I  agree  to  anything." 

He  leaned  forward,  pencil  in  hand,  to  make  a  note 
of  the  figure  Morrison  should  name,  when  the  drunk- 
ard approached  and  struck  the  table  in  front  of  him 
with  his  fist,  and  blazed  upon  Bartley's  face,  suddenly 
uplifted,  with  his  blue  crazy  eyes. 

"  No,  sir !  I  won't  take  a  seat,  and  I  don't  come 
on  no  such  business !  No,  sir ! "  He  struck  the 
table  again,  and  the  violence  of  his  blow  upset  the 
iukstand. 

Bartley  saved  himself  by  suddenly  springing  away. 
"  Hollo  here  ! "  he  shouted.  "  What  do  you  mean  by 
this  infernal  nonsense  ? " 

"  What  do  you  mean,"  retorted  the  drunkard,  "  by 
makin'  up  to  my  girl  ? " 

•'  You  're  a  fool,"  cried  Bartley,  "  and  drunk !" 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  75 

*  I  '11  show  you  whether  I'm  a  fool,  and  I  '11  show 
you  whether  I  'm  drunk,"  said  Morrison.  He  opened 
the  door  and  beckoned  to  Bird,  with  an  air  of  myste- 
rious authority.  "Young  man!  Come  here  !" 

Bird  was  used  to  the  indulgence  with  which  Bart- 
ley  treated  Morrison's  tipsy  freaks,  and  supposed  that 
he  had  been  called  by  his  consent  to  witness  another 
agreement  to  a  rise  in  Hannah's  wages.  He  came 
quickly,  to  help  get  Morrison  out  of  the  way  the 
sooner,  and  he  was  astonished  to  be  met  by  Bartley 
with  "  I  don't  want  you,  Bird." 

"  All  right,"  answered  the  boy,  and  he  turned  to  go 
out  of  the  door. 

But  Morrison  had  planted  himself  against  it,  and 
waved  Bird  austerely  back.  "/  want  you,"  he  said, 
with  drunken  impressiveness,  "  for  a  witness  —  wick 
—  witness  —  while  I  ask  Mr.  Hubbard  what  he  means 
by-" 

"  Hold  your  tongue  ! "  cried  Bartley.  "  Get  out  of 
this  ! "  He  advanced  a  pace  or  two  toward  Morrison 
who  stood  his  ground  without  swerving. 

"  Now  you  —  you  keep  quiet,  Mr.  Hubbard,"  said 
Morrison,  with  a  swift  drunken  change  of  mood,  by 
which  he  passed  from  arrogant  denunciation  to  a 
smooth,  patronizing  mastery  of  the  situation.  "/ 
wish  this  thing  all  settled  amic  —  ic  —  amelcabilly." 

Bartley  broke  into  a  helpless  laugh  at  Morrison's 
final  failure  on  a  word  difficult  to  sober  tongues,  and 
the  latter  went  on :  "  No  'casion  for  bad  feeling  on 
either  side.  All  I  want  know  is  what  you  mean." 

"  Well,  go  on  ! "  cried  Bartley,  good-naturedly,  and 
he  sat  down  in  his  chair,  which  he  tilted  back,  and, 
clasping  his  hands  behind  his  head,  looked  up  into 
Morrison's  face.  "  What  do  I  mean  by  what  ?  " 

Probably  Morrison  had  not  expected  to  be  categori- 
cal, or  to  bring  anything  like  a  bill  of  particulars 
against  Bartley,  and  this  demand  gave  him  pause. 


76  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  What  you  mean,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  by  always 
praising  her  up  so  ? " 

"  What  I  said.  She 's  a  very  good  girl,  and  a  very 
bright  one.  You  don  't  deny  that  ?  " 

"  No  —  no  matter  what  I  deny.  What  —  what 
you  lend  her  all  them  books  for  ? " 

"  To  improve  her  mind.  You  don't  object  to  that  ? 
I  thought  you  once  thanked  me  for  taking  an  interest 
in  her." 

"Don't  you  mind  what  I  object  to,  and  what  I 
thank  you  for,"  said  Morrison,  with  dignity.  "I 
know  what  I  'm  about." 

"  I  begin  to  doubt.  But  get  on.  I  'm  in  a  great 
hurry  this  morning,"  said  Bartley. 

Morrison  seemed  to  be  making  a  mental  examina- 
tion of  his  stock  of  charges,  while  the  strain  of  keep- 
ing his  upright  position  began  to  tell  iipon  him,  and 
he  swayed  to  and  fro  against  the  door.  "What's 
that  word  you  sent  her  by  my  boy,  Sat'day  night  ? " 

"That  she  was  a  smart  girl,  and  would  be  sure 
to  get  on  if  she  was  good  —  or  words  to  that  effect. 
I  trust  there  was  no  offence  in  that,  Mr.  Morrison  ? " 

Morrison  surrendered  himself  to  another  season  of 
cogitation,  in  which  he  probably  found  his  vagueness 
growing  upon  him.  He  ended  by  fumbling  in  all  his 
pockets,  and  bringing  up  from  the  last  a  crumpled 
scrap  of  paper.  "  What  you  —  what  you  say  that  ? " 

Bartley  took  the  extended  scrap  with  an  easy  air. 
"  Miss  Morrison's  handwriting,  I  think."  He  held  it 
up  before  him  and  read  aloud,  "  *  I  love  my  love  with 
an  H  because  he  is  Handsome.'  This  appears  to  be 
a  confidence  of  Miss  Morrison  to  her  Muse.  Whom 
do  you  think  she  refers  to,  Mr.  Morrison  ? " 

"  What 's  —  what 's  the  first  letter  your  name  ? n 
demanded  Morrison,  with  an  effort  to  collect  his  dis- 
persing severity. 

"  B,"  promptly  replied  Bartley.  "  Perhaps  this  con- 


'A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  77 

eerns  you,  Henry.  Your  name  begins  with  an  H." 
He  passed  the  paper  up  over  his  head  to  Bird,  who 
took  it  silently.  "  You  see,"  he  continued,  addressing 
Bird,  but  looking  at  Morrison  as  he  spoke,  "  Mr. 
Morrison  wishes  to  convict  me  of  an  attempt  upon 
Miss  Hannah's  affections.  Have  you  anything  else 
to  urge,  Mr.  Morrison  ? " 

Morrison  slid  at  last  from  his  difficult  position  into 
a  convenient  chair,  and  struggled  to  keep  himself 
from  doubling  forward.  "  I  want  know  what  you 
mean,"  he  said,  with  dogged  iteration. 

"  I  '11  show  you  what  I  mean,"  said  Bartley  with  an 
ugly  quiet,  while  his  mustache  began  to  twitch.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  seized  Morrison  by  the  collar, 
pulling  him  up  out  of  the  chair  till  he  held  him  clear 
of  the  floor,  and  opened  the  door  with  his  other  hand. 
"  Don't  show  your  face  here  again,  —  you  or  your  girl 
either ! "  Still  holding  the  man  by  the  collar,  he 
pushed  him  before  him  through  the  office,  and  gave 
him  a  final  thust  out  of  the  outer  door. 

Bartley  returned  to  his  room  in  a  white  heat: 
"  Miserable  tipsy  rascal  I "  he  panted ;  "  I  "wonder 
who  has  set  him  on  to  this  thing/' 

Bird  stood  pale  and  silent,  still  holding  the  crum- 
pled scrap  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

"  I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  that  impudent  little 
witch  herself  had  put  him  up  to  it.  She 's  capable  of 
it,"  said  Bartley,  fumbling  aimlessly  about  on  his 
table,  in  his  wrath,  without  looking  at  Bird. 

"It's a  lie!"  said  Bird. 

Bartley  started  as  if  the  other  had  struck  him,  and 
as  he  glared  at  Bird  the  anger  went  out  of  his  face 
for  pure  amazement.  "  Are  you  out  of  your  mind, 
Henry  ? "  he  asked  calmly.  "  Perhaps  you  're  drunk 
too,  this  morning.  The  Devil  seems  to  have  got  into 
pretty  much  everybody." 

"  It 's   a   lie  ! "   repeated  the  boy,  while  the  tears 


T8  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

sprang  to  his  eyes.     "  She 's  as  good  a  girl  as  Marcia 
Gaylord  is,  any  day ! " 

"  Better  go  away,  Henry,"  said  Bartley,  with  a 
deadly  sort  of  gentleness. 

"I'm  going  away,"  answered  the  boy,  his  face 
twisted  with  weeping.  "I've  done  my  last  day's 
work  for  you"  He  pulled  down  his  shirt-sleeves, 
and  buttoned  them  at  the  wrists,  while  the  tears  ran 
out  over  his  face,  —  helpless  tears,  the  sign  of  his 
womanish  tenderness,  his  womanish  weakness. 

Bartley  continued  to  glare  at  him.  "  Why,  I  do 
believe  you're  in  love  with  her  yourself,  you  little 
fool!" 

"Oh,  I've  been  a  fool!"  cried  Bird.  "A  fool  to 
think  as  much  of  you  as  I  always  have,  —  a  fool  to 
believe  that  you  were  a  gentleman,  and  would  n't 
take  a  mean  advantage.  I  was  a  fool  to  suppose  you 
wanted  to  do  her  any  good,  when  you  came  praising 
and  nattering  her,  and  turning  her  head  ! " 

"Well,  then,"  said  Bartley  with  harsh  insolence, 
"  don't  be  a  fool  any  longer.  If  you  're  in  love  with 
her,  you  have  n't  any  quarrel  with  me,  my  boy.  She 
flies  at  higher  game  than  humble  newspaper  editors. 
The  head  of  Willett's  lumbering  gang  is  your  man ; 
and  so  you  may  go  and  tell  that  old  sot,  her  father. 
Why,  Henry  !  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  care  any- 
thing for  that  girl  ?  " 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  nrt  done  every- 
thing you  could  to  turn  her  head  since  she 's  been 
in  this  office  ?  She  used  to  like  me  well  enough  at 
school."  All  men  are  blind  and  jealous  children 
alike,  when  it  comes  to  question  of  a  woman  between 
them,  and  this  poor  boy's  passion  was  turning  him 
into  a  tiger.  "Don't  come  to  me  with  your  lies, 
any  more ! "  Here  his  rage  culminated,  and  with  a 
blind  cry  of  "Ay!"  he  struck  the  paper  which  he 
had  kept  in  his  hand  into  Bartley's  face. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  79 

The  demons,  whatever  they  were,  of  anger,  re- 
morse, pride,  shame,  were  at  work  in  Hartley's  heart 
too,  and  he  returned  the  blow  as  instantly  as  if  Bird's 
touch  had  set  the  mechanism  of  his  arm  in  motion 
In  contempt  of  the  other's  weakness  he  struck  with 
the  flat  of  his  hand  ;  but  the  blow  was  enough.  Bird 
fell  headlong,  and  the  concussion  of  his  head  upon 
the  floor  did  the  rest.  He  lay  senseless. 


80  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 


VII. 


BARTLEY  hung  over  the  boy  with  such  a  terror  in 
his  soul  as  he  had  never  had  before.  He  believed 
that  he  had  killed  him,  and  in  this  conviction  came 
with  the  simultaneity  of  events  in  dreams  the  sense 
of  all  his  blaine,  of  which  the  blow  given  for  a  blow 
seemed  the  least  part.  He  was  not  so  wrong  in  that 
as  he  was  wrong  in  what  led  to  it.  He  did  not 
abhor  in  himself  so  much  the  wretch  who  had  struck 
his  brother  down  as  the  light  and  empty  fool  who 
had  trifled  with  that  silly  hoyden.  The  follies  that 
seemed  so  amusing  and  resultless  in  their  time  had 
ripened  to  this  bitter  effect,  and  he  knew  that  he,  and 
not  she,  was  mainly  culpable.  Her  self-betrayal,  how- 
ever it  came  about,  was  proof  that  they  were  more 
serious  with  her  than  with  him,  and  he  could  not 
plead  to  himself  even  the  poor  excuse  that  his  fancy 
had  been  caught.  Amidst  the  anguish  of  his  self- 
condemnation  the  need  to  conceal  what  he  had  done 
occurred  to  him.  He  had  been  holding  Bird's  head 
in  his  arms,  and  imploring  him,  "  Henry !  Henry ! 
wake  up  ! "  in  a  low,  husky  voice  ;  but  now  he  turned 
to  the  door  and  locked  it,  and  the  lie  by  which  he 
should  escape  sprang  to.  his  tongue.  "  He  died  in  a 
fit."  He  almost  believed  it  as  it  murmured  itself 
from  his  lips.  There  was  no  mark,  no  bruise,  noth- 
ing to  show  that  he  had  touched  the  boy.  Suddenly 
he  felt  the  lie  choke  him.  He  pulled  down  the 
window  to  let  in  the  fresh  air,  and  this  pure  breath 
of  heaven  blew  into  his  darkened  spirit  and  lifted 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  81 

there  a  little  the  vapors  which  were  thickening  in  it. 
The  horror  of  having  to  tell  that  lie,  even  if  he 
should  escape  by  it,  all  his  life  long,  till  he  was  a 
gray  old  man,  and  to  keep  the  truth  forever  from  his 
lips,  presented  itself  to  him  as  intolerable  slavery. 
'*  Oh,  my  God ! "  he  spoke  aloud,  "  how  can  I  bear 
that?"  And  it  was  in  self-pity  that  he  revolted 
from  it.  Few  men  love  the  truth  for  its  own  sake, 
and  Bartley  was  not  one  of  these ;  but  he  practised 
it  because  his  experience  had  been  that  lies  were 
difficult  to  manage,  and  that  they  were  a  burden 
on  the  mind.  He  was  not  candid ;  he  did  not  shun 
concealments  and  evasions ;  but  positive  lies  he 
had  kept  from,  and  now  he  could  not  trust  one  to 
save  his  life.  He  unlocked  the  door  and  ran  out  to 
find  help;  he  must  do  that  at  last;  he  must  do  it 
at  any  risk ;  no  matter  what  he  said  afterward. 
When  our  deeds  and  motives  come  to  be  balanced  at 
the  last  day,  let  us  hope  that  mercy,  and  not  justice, 
may  prevail. 

It  must  have  been  mercy  that  sent  the  doctor  at 
that  moment  to  the  apothecary's,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  street,  and  enabled  Bartley  to  get  him  up  into  his 
office,  without  publicity  or  explanation  other  than 
that  Henry  Bird  seemed  to  be  in  a  fit.  The  doctor 
lifted  the  boy's  head,  and  explored  his  bosom  with  his 
hand. 

"Is  he  —  is  he  dead?"  gasped  Bartley,  and  the 
words  came  so  mechanically  from  his  tongue  that  he 
began  to  believe  he  had  not  spoken  them,  when  the 
doctor  answered. 

"  No  !    How  did  this  happen  ?     Tell  me  exactly." 

"  We  had  a  quarrel.  He  struck  me.  I  knocked 
him  down."  Bartley  delivered  up  the  truth,  as  a 
prisoner  of  war  —  or  a  captive  brigand,  perhaps  — • 
parts  with  his  weapons  one  by  one. 

"  Very  \rell,"  said  the  doctor.    "  Get  some  water." 

6 


82  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

Bartley  poured  some  out  of  the  pitcher  on  his  table, 
and  the  doctor,  wetting  his  handkerchief,  drew  it 
again  and  again  over  Bird's  forehead. 

"  I  never  meant  to  hurt  him,"  said  Bartley.  "  I 
did  n't  even  intend  to  strike  him  when  he  hit  me." 

"  Intentions  have  very  little  to  do  with  physical 
effects,"  replied  the  doctor  sharply.  "  Henry  ! " 

The  boy  opened  his  eyes,  and,  muttering  feebly, 
"  My  head  !  "  closed  them  again. 

"  There 's  a  concussion  here/'  said  the  doctor. 
"We  had  better  get  him  home.  Drive  my  sleigh 
over,  will  you,  from  Smith's." 

Bartley  went  out  into  the  glare  of  the  sun,  which 
beat  upon  him  like  the  eye  of  the  world.  But  the 
street  was  really  empty,  as  it  often  was  in  the  middle 
of  the  forenoon  at  Equity.  The  apothecary,  who  saw 
him  untying  the  doctor's  horse,  came  to  his  door,  and 
said  jocosely,  "  Hello,  Doc  !  who 's  sick  ? " 

"  I  am,"  said  Bartley,  solemnly,  and  the  apothe- 
cary laughed  at  his  readiness.  Bartley  drove  round 
to  the  back  of  the  printing-office,  where  the  farmers 
delivered  his  wood.  "  I  thought  we  could  get  him 
out  better  that  way,"  he  explained,  and  the  doctor, 
who  had  to  befriend  a  great  many  concealments 
in  his  practice,  silently  spared  Bartley's  disingenu- 
ousness. 

The  rush  of  the  cold  air,  as  they  drove  rapidly  down 
the  street,  with  that  limp  shape  between  them,  re- 
vived the  boy,  and  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  made  an 
effort  to  hold  himself  erect,  but  he  could  not ;  and 
when  they  got  him  into  the  warm  room  at  home,  he 
fainted  again.  His  mother  had  met  them  at  the  door 
of  her  poor  little  house,  without  any  demonstration 
of  grief  or  terror ;  she  was  far  too  well  acquainted  in 
her  widowhood  —  bereft  of  all  her  children  but  this 
son  —  with  sickness  and  death,  to  show  even  sur- 
prise, if  she  felt  it,  When  Bartley  broke  out  into  his 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  83 

lamentable  confession,  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Bird !  this  is  my 
work!"  she  only  wrung  her  hands  and  answered, 
"  Your  work !  Oh,  Mr.  Hubbard,  he  thought  the 
world  of  you  !  "  and  did  not  ask  him  how  or  why  he 
had  done  it.  After  they  had  got  Henry  on  the  bed, 
Hartley  was  no  longer  of  use  there ;  but  they  let  him 
remain  in  the  corner  into  which  he  bad  shrunk,  and 
from  which  he  watched  all  that  went  on,  with  a  dry 
mouth  and  faltering  breath.  It  began  to  appear  to 
him  that  he  was  very  young  to  be  involved  in  a 
misfortune  like  this ;  he  did  not  understand  why  it 
should  have  happened  to  him ;  but  he  promised  him- 
self that,  if  Henry  lived,  he  would  try  to  be  a  better 
man  in  every  way. 

After  he  had  lost  all  hope,  the  time  seemed  so  long, 
the  boy  on  the  bed  opened  his  eyes  once  more,  and 
looked  round,  while  Bartley  still  sat  with  his  face  in 
his  hands.  "  Where  —  where  is  Mr.  Hubbard  ? "  he 
faintly  asked,  with  a  bewildered  look  at  his  mother 
and  the  doctor. 

Bartley  heard  the  weak  voice,  acd  staggered  for- 
ward, and  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed.  "  Here, 
here!  Here  I  am,  Henry!  Oh,  Henry,  I  didn't 
intend  — "  He  stopped  at  the  word,  and  hid  his 
face  in  the  coverlet. 

The  boy  lay  as  if  trying  to  make  out  what  had 
happened,  and  the  doctor  told  him  that  he  had 
fainted.  After  a  time,  he  put  out  his  hand  and  laid 
it  on  Bartley's  head.  "  Yes ;  but  I  don't  understand 
what  makes  him  cry." 

They  looked  at  Bartley,  who  had  lifted  his  head, 
and  he  went  over  the  whole  affair,  except  so  far  as  it 
related  to  Hannah  Morrison ;  he  did  not  spare  him- 
self; he  had  often  found  that  strenuous  self-condem- 
nation moved  others  to  compassion ;  and  besides,  it 
was  his  nature  to  seek  the  relief  of  full  confession. 
But  Henry  heard  him  through  with  a  blank  eounte- 


84  A   MODERN  INSTANCE. 

nance.  "  Don't  you  remember  ? "  Bartley  implored 
at  last. 

"No,  I  don't  remember.  I  only  remember  that 
there  seemed  to  be  something  the  matter  with  my 
head  this  morning." 

"  That  was  the  trouble  with  me,  too,"  said  Bartley. 
"  I  must  have  been  crazy  —  I  must  have  been  insane 

—  when  I  struck  you.     I  can't  account  for  it." 
"  I  don't  remember  it,"  answered  the  boy. 

"  That 's  all  right,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Don't  try.  I 
guess  you  better  let  him  alone,  now,"  he  added  to 
Bartley,  with  such  a  significant  look  that  the  young 
man  retired  from  the  bedside,  and  stood  awkwardly 
apart.  "He'll  get  along.  You  needn't  be  anxious 
about  leaving  him.  He  11  be  better  alone." 

There  was  no  mistaking  this  hint.  "  Well,  well ! " 
said  Bartley,  humbly,  "  I  '11  go.  But  I  'd  rather  stay 
and  watch  with  him,  —  I  sha'n't  eat  or  sleep  till  he 's 
on  foot  again.  And  I  can't  leave  till  you  tell  me 
that  you  forgive  me,  Mrs.  Bird.  I  never  dreamed  — 

—  I  did  n't  intend  —  "     He  could  not  go  on. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  meant  to  hurt  Henry,"  said 
the  mother.  "  You  always  pretended  to  be  so  fond 
of  him,  and  he  thought  the  wrorld  of  you.  But  I 
don't  see  how  you  could  do  it.  I  presume  it  was  all 
right." 

"  No,  it  was  all  wrong,  —  or  so  nearly  all  wrong  that 
I  must  ask  your  forgiveness  on  that  ground.  I  loved 
him,  —  I  thought  the  world  of  him,  too.  I  'd  ten 
thousand  times  rather  have  hurt  myself,"  pleaded 
Bartley.  "  Don't  let  me  go  till  you  say  that  you  for 
give  me." 

"  I  '11  see  how  Henry  gets  along,"  said  Mrs.  Bird. 
"  I  don't  know  as  I  could  rightly  say  I  forgive  you 
just  yet."  Doubtless  she  was  dealing  conscientiously 
with  herself  and  with  him.  "  I  like  to  be  sure  of  a 
thing  when  I  say  it,"  she  added. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  85 

The  doctor  followed  him  into  the  hall,  and  Bartley 
could  not  help  turning  to  him  for  consolation.  "  I 
think  Mrs.  Bird  is  very  unjust,  Doctor.  I  've  done 
everything  I  could,  and  said  everything  to  explain 
the  matter ;  and  I  've  blamed  myself  where  I  can't 
feel  that  I  was  to  blame ;  and  yet  you  see  how  she 
holds  out  against  me." 

"I  dare  say,"  answered  the  doctor  dryly,  "she'll 
feel  differently,  as  she  says,  if  the  boy  gets  along." 

Bartley  dropped  his  hat  to  the  floor.  "  Get  along ! 
Why  —  why  you  think  he  '11  get  well  now,  don't  you, 
Doctor?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  was  merely  using  her  words.  He  '11 
get  well." 

"  And  —  and  it  wont  affect  his  mind,  will  it  ?  I 
thought  it  was  very  strange,  his  not  remembering 
anything  about  it  — " 

"  That 's  a  very  common  phenomenon,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  The  patient  usually  forgets  everything  that 
occurred  for  some  little  time  before  the  accident,  iu 
cases  of  concussion  of  the  brain."  Bartley  shuddered 
at  the  phrase,  but  he  could  not  ask  anything  further. 
"  What  I  wanted  to  say  to  you,"  continued  the  doctor, 
"was  that  this  may  be  a  long  thing,  and  there  may 
have  to  be  an  inquiry  into  it.  You  're  lawyer  enough 
to  understand  what  that  means.  I  should  have  to 
testify  to  what  I  know,  and  I  only  know  what  you 
told  me." 

"  Why,  you  don't  doubt — " 

"  No,  sir ;  I  've  no  reason  to  suppose  you  have  n't 
told  me  the  truth,  as  far  as  it  goes.  If  you  have 
thought  it  advisable  to  keep  anything  back  from  me, 
you  may  wish  to  tell  the  whole  story  to  an  attor- 
ney." 

"  I  have  n't  kept  anything  back,  Doctor  Wills," 
said  Bartley.  "  I  've  told  you  everything  —  every- 
thing that  concerned  the  quarrel.  That  drunken  old 


86  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

scoundrel  of  a  Morrison  got  us  into  it.  He  accused 
me  of  making  love  to  his  daughter ;  and  Henry  was 
jealous.  I  never  knew  he  cared  anything  for  her. 
I  hated  to  tell  you  this  before  his  mother.  But  this 
is  the  whole  truth,  so  help  me  God." 

"  I  supposed  it  was  something  of  the  kind,"  replied 
the  doctor.  "  I  'm  sorry  for  you.  You  can't  keep  it 
from  having  an  ugly  look  if  it  gets  out ;  and  it  may 
have  to  be  made  public.  I  advise  you  to  go  and  see 
Squire  Gaylord ;  he 's  always  stood  your  friend." 

"I  —  I  was  just  going  there,"  said  Bartley ;  and 
this  was  true. 

Through  all,  he  had  felt  the  need  of  some  sort  of  re- 
trieval, —  of  re-establishing  himself  in  his  own  esteem 
by  some  signal  stroke ;  and  he  could  think  of  but  one 
thing.  It  was  not  his  fault  if  he  believed  that  this 
must  combine  self-sacrifice  with  safety,  and  the  great- 
est degree  of  humiliation  with  the  largest  sum  of  con- 
solation. He  was  none  the  less  resolved  not  to  spare 
himself  at  all  in  offering  to  release  Marcia  from  her 
engagement.  The  fact  that  he  must  now  also  see 
her  father  upon  the  legal  aspect  of  his  case  certainly 
complicated  the  affair,  and  detracted  from  its  heroic 
quality.  He  could  not  tell  which  to  see  first,  for  he 
naturally  wished  his  action  to  look  as  well  as  possi- 
ble; and  if  he  went  first  to  Marcia,  and  she  con- 
demned him,  he  did  not  know  in  what  figure  he 
should  approach  her  father.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  went  first  to  Squire  Gaylord,  the  old  lawyer  might 
insist  that  the  engagement  was  already  at  an  end  by 
Bartley 's  violent  act,  and  might  well  refuse  to  let  a 
man  in  his  position  even  see  his  daughter.  He  lagged 
heavy-heartedly  up  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  left 
the  question  to  solve  itself  at  the  last  moment.  But 
when  he  reached  Squire  Gaylord's  gate,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  it  would  be  easier  to  face  the  father  first; 
and  this  would  be  the  right  way  too. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  87 

He  turned  aside  to  the  little  office,  and  opened  the 
door  without  knocking,  and  as  he  stood  with  the 
knob  in  his  hand,  trying  to  habituate  his  eyes,  full  of 
the  snow-glare,  to  the  dimmer  light  within,  he  heard 
a  rapturous  cry  of  "  Why  Bartley  !  "  and  he  felt  Mar- 
cia's  arms  flung  around  his  neck.  His  burdened  heart 
yearned  upon  her  with  a  tenderness  he  had  not 
known  before ;  he  realized  the  preciousness  of  an 
embrace  that  might  be  the  last ;  but  he  dared  not 
put  down  his  lips  to  hers.  She  pushed  back  her 
head  in  a  little  wonder,  and  saw  the  haggardness 
of  his  face,  while  he  discovered  her  father  looking 
at  them.  How  strong  and  pure  the  fire  in  her  must 
be  when  her  father's  presence  could  not  abash  her 
from  this  betrayal  of  her  love !  Bartley  sickened, 
and  he  felt  her  arms  slip  from  his  neck.  "  Why  — 
why  —  what  is  the  matter  ? " 

In  spite  of  some  vaguely  magnanimous  intention 
to  begin  at  the  beginning,  and  tell  the  whole  affair 
just  as  it  happened,  Bartley  found  himself  wishing 
to  put  the  best  face  on  it  at  first,  and  trust  to  chances 
to  make  it  all  appear  well.  He  did  not  speak  at  once, 
and  Marcia  pressed  him  into  a  chair,  and  then,  like 
an  eager  child,  who  will  not  let  its  friend  escape  till 
it  has  been  told  what  it  wishes  to  know,  she  set  her- 
self on  his  knee,  and  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
He  looked  at  her  father,  not  at  her,  while  he  spoke 
hoarsely:  "I  have  had  trouble  with  Henry  Bird, 
Squire  Gaylord,  and  I  Ve  come  to  tell  you  about  it." 

The  old  squire  did  not  speak,  but  Marcia  repeated 
in  amazement,  "  With  Henry  Bird  ? " 

"  He  struck  me  — " 

"  Henry  Bird  struck  you ! "  cried  the  girl.  "  I 
should  like  to  know  why  Henry  Bird  struck  you, 
when  you  Ve  made  so  much  of  him,  and  he 's  always 
pretended  to  be  so  grateful  — " 

Bartley  still  looked  at  her  father.  "  And  I  struck 
him  back." 


88  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  You  did  perfectly  right,  Bartley,"  exclaimed  Mar- 
cia,  "  and  I  should  have  despised  you  if  you  had  let 
any  one  run  over  you.  Struck  you  !  I  declare  — " 

He  did  not  heed  her,  but  continued  to  look  at  her 
father.  "  I  did  n't  intend  to  hurt  him, —  I  hit  him 
with  my  open  hand, —  but  he  fell  and  struck  his  head 
on  the  floor.  I  'm  afraid  it  hurt  him  pretty  badly." 
He  felt  the  pang  that  thrilled  through  the  girl  at  his 
words,  and  her  hand  trembled  on  his  shoulder ;  but 
she  did  not  take  it  away. 

The  old  man  came  forward  from  the  pile  of  books 
which  he.  and  Marcia  had  been  dusting,  and  sat  down 
in  a  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  stove.  He  pushed 
back  his  hat  from  his  forehead,  and  asked  drily, 
"  What  commenced  it  ?  " 

Bartley  hesitated.  It  was  this  part  of  the  affair 
which  he  would  rather  have  imparted  to  Marcia  after 
seeing  it  with  her  father's  eyes,  or  possibly,  if  her 
father  viewed  it  favorably,  have  had  him  tell  her. 
The  old  man  noticed  his  reluctance.  "  Had  n't  you 
better  go  into  the  house,  Marsh  ? " 

She  merely  gave  him  a  look  of  utter  astonishment 
for  answer,  and  did  not  move.  He  laughed  noise- 
lessly, and  said  to  Bartley,  "  Go  on." 

"  It  was  that  drunken  old  scoundrel  of  a  Morrison 
who  began  it ! "  cried  Bartley,  in  angry  desperation. 
Marcia  dropped  her  hand  from  his  shoulder,  while  her 
father  worked  his  jaws  upon  the  bit  of  stick  he  had 
picked  up  from  the  pile  of  wood,  and  put  between  his 
teeth.  "  You  know  that  whenever  he  gets  on  a  spree 
he  comes  to  the  office  and  wants  Hannah's  wages 
raised." 

Marcia  sprang  to  her  feet.  "Oh,  I  knew  it!  I 
knew  it !  I  told  you  she  would  get  you  into  trouble ! 
I  told  you  so  ! "  She  stood  clinching  her  hands,  and 
her  father  bent  his  keen  scrutiny  first  upon  her,  and 
then  upon  the  frowning  face  with  which  Bartley  re- 
garded her. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  89 

"  Did  he  come  to  have  her  wages  raised  to-day  ? " 

"No." 

"  What  did  he  come  for  ? "     He  involuntarily  as 
sumed  the  attitude  of  a  lawyer  crossquestioning  a 
fclippery  witness. 

"He  came  for —  He  came —  He  accused  me  of — 
He  said  I  had  —  made  love  to  his  confounded  girl." 

Marcia  gasped. 

"  What  made  him  think  you  had  ? " 

"  It  was  n't  necessary  for  him  to  have  any  reason. 
He  was  drunk.  I  had  been  kind  to  the  girl,  and 
favored  her  all  I  could,  because  she  seemed  to  be 
anxious  to  do  her  work  well ;  and  I  praised  her  for 
trying." 

"  Um-umph,"  commented  the  Squire.     "  And  that 
Henry  Bird  jealous  ? " 

"  It  seems  that  he  was  fond  of  her.  I  never 
dreamed  of  such  a  thing,  and  when  I  put  old  Morrison 
out  of  the  office,  and  came  back,  he  called  me  a  liar, 
and  struck  rne  in  the  face."  He  did  not  lift  his  eyes 
to  the  level  of  Marcia's,  who  in  her  gray  dress  stood 
there  like  a  gray  shadow,  and  did  not  stir  or  speak. 

"  And  you  never  had  made  up  to  the  girl  at  all  ? " 

"No."' 

"  Kissed  her,  I  suppose,  now  and  then  ? "  suggested 
the  Squire. 

Bartley  did  not  reply. 

"  Flattered  her  up,  and  told  how  much  you  thought 
of  her,  occasionally  ? " 

"  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it,"  said 
Bartley  with  a  sulky  defiance. 

"  No,  I  suppose  it  's  what  you  'd  do  with  most  any 
pretty  girl,"  returned  the  Squire.  He  was  silent 
awhile.  "  And  so  you  knocked  Henry  down.  What 
happened  then  ? " 

"  I  tried  to  bring  him  to,  and  then  I  went  for  the 
doctor.  He  revived,  and  we  got  him  home  to  his 


00  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

mother's.  The  doctor  says  he  will  get  well ;  "but  he 
advised  me  to  come  and  see  you." 

"  Any  witnesses  of  the  assault  ? " 

"No;  we  were  alone  in  my  own  room." 

"Told  any  one  else  about  it  ?" 

"  I  told  the  doctor  and  Mrs.  Bird.  Henry  could  n't 
remember  it  at  all." 

**  Could  n't  remember  about  Morrison,  or  what  made 
him  mad  at  you  ? " 

"Nothing." 

«  And  that 's  all  about  it  ? " 

"Yes." 

The  two  men  had  talked  across  the  stove  at  each 
other,  practically  ignoring  the  girl,  who  stood  apart 
from  them,  gray  in  the  face  as  her  dress,  and  sup- 
pressing a  passion  which  had  turned  her  as  rigid  as 
stone. 

*  Now,  Marcia,"  said  her  father,  kindly,  "  better  go 
into  the  house.  That  's  all  there  is  of  it." 

"  No,  that  is  n't  all,"  she  answered.  "  Give  me  my 
ring,  Bartley.  Here  's  yours."  She  slipped  it  off  her 
finger,  and  put  it  into  his  mechanically  extended 
hand. 

"  Marcia ! "  he  implored,  confronting  her. 

"  Give  me  my  ring,  please." 

He  obeyed,  and  put  it  into  her  hand.  She  slipped 
it  back  on  the  finger  from  which  she  had  so  fondly 
suffered  him  to  take  it  yesterday,  and  replace  it  with 
his  own. 

"  I  '11  go  into  the  house  now,  father.  Good  by, 
Bartley."  Her  eyes  were  perfectly  clear  and  dry,  and 
her  voice  controlled ;  and  as  he  stood  passive  before 
her,  she  took  him  round  the  neck,  and  pressed  against 
his  face,  once,  and  twice,  and  thrice,  her  own  gray 
face,  in  which  all  love,  and  unrelenting,  and  despair, 
were  painted.  Once  and  again  she  held  him,  and 
looked  him  in  the  eyes,  as  if  to  be  sure  it  was  he. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  91 

Then,  with  a  last  pressure  of  her  face  to  his,  she  re- 
leased him,  and  passed  out  of  the  door. 

"  She  's  been  talking  about  you,  here,  all  the  morn- 
ing," said  the  Squire,  with  a  sort  of  quiet  absence,  as 
if  nothing  in  particular  had  happened,  and  he  were 
commenting  on  a  little  fact  that  might  possibly  inter- 
est Bartley.  He  ruminated  upon  the  fragment  of 
wood  in  his  mouth  awhile  before  he  added :  "  I  guess 
she  won't  want  to  talk  about  you  any  more.  I  drew 
you  out  a  little  on  that  Hannah  Morrison  business, 
because  I  wanted  her  to  understand  just  what  kind  of 
fellow  you  were.  You  see  it  is  n't  the  trouble  you  *ve 
got  into  with  Henry  Bird  that 's  killed  her ;  it '&  the 
cause  of  the  trouble.  I  guess  if  it  had  been  any- 
thing else,  she  'd  have  stood  by  you.  But  yon  see 
that 's  the  one  thing  she  could  n't  bear,  and  I  'm  glad 
it 's  happened  now  instead  of  afterwards :  I  guess 
you  're  one  of  that  kind,  Mr.  Hubbard." 

"  Squire  Gaylord ! "  cried  Bartley,  "  upon  my  sacred 
word  of  honor,  there  is  n't  any  more  of  this  thing  than 
I  Ve  told  you.  And  I  think  it 's  pretty  hard  to  foe 
thrown  over  for  —  for  —  " 

"  Fooling  with  a  pretty  girl,  when  you  get  a  chance, 
and  the  girl  seems  to  like  it  ?  Yes,  it  is  rather  hard. 
And  I  suppose  you  have  n't  even  seen  her  since  you 
were  engaged  to  Marcia  ? " 

"  Of  course  not  I     That  is  —  " 

"  It 's  a  kind  of  retroactive  legislation  on  Marcia's 
part,"  said  the  Squire,  rubbing  his  chin,  "  and  that  's 
against  one  of  the  first  principles  of  law.  But  women 
don't  seem  to  be  able  to  grasp  that  idea.  They  're 
queer  about  some  things.  They  appear  to  think  they 
marry  a  man's  whole  life,  —  his  past  as  well  as  his 
future,  —  and  that  makes  'em  particular.  And  they 
distinguish  between  different  kinds  of  men.  Yoo  'M 
find  'em  pinning  their  faith  to  a  fellow  who  *s  been 
through  pretty  much  everything,  and  swearing  by  hiar 


92  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

from  the  word  go ;  and  another  chap,  who  's  never 
done  anything  very  bad,  they  won't  trust  half  a 
minute  out  of  their  sight.  Well,  I  guess  Marcia  is  of 
rather  a  jealous  disposition,"  he  concluded,  as  if  Bart- 
ley  had  urged  this  point. 

"  She  's  very  unjust  to  me,"  Bartley  began. 

"  Oh,  yes,  —  she's  unjust"  said  her  father.  " I  don't 
deny  that.  But  it  would  n't  be  any  use  talking  to  her. 
She  'd  probably  turn  round  with  some  excuse  about 
what  she  had  suffered,  and  that  would  be  the  end  of 
it.  She  would  say  that  she  could  n't  go  through  it 
again.  Well,  it  ought  to  be  a  comfort  to  you  to  think 
you  don't  care  a  great  deal  about  it." 

"  But  I  do  care  ! "  exclaimed  Bartley.  "  I  care  all 
the  world  for  it.  I  —  " 

"  Since  when  ? "  interrupted  the  Squire.  "  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  you  did  n't  know  till  you  asked  her 
yesterday  that  Marcia  was  in  love  with  you  ? " 

Bartley  was  silent. 

"  I  guess  you  knew  it  as  much  as  a  year  ago,  did  n't 
you  ?  Everybody  else  did.  But  you  'd  just  as  soon 
it  had  been  Hannah  Morrison,  or  any  other  pretty  girl. 
You  did  n't  care !  But  Marcia  did,  you  see.  She 
was  n't  one  of  the  kind  that  let  any  good-looking  fel- 
low make  love  to  them.  It  was  because  it  was  you  ; 
and  you  knew  it.  We  're  plain  men,  Mr.  Hubbard  ; 
and  I  guess  you  '11  get  over  this,  in  time.  I  should  n't 
wonder  if  you  began  to  mend,  right  away." 

Bartley  found  himself  helpless  in  the  face  of  this 
passionless  sarcasm.  He  could  have  met  stormy  in- 
dignation or  any  sort  of  invective  in  kind ;  but  the 
contemptuous  irony  with  which  his  pretensions  were 
treated,  the  cold  scrutiny  with  which  his  motives  were 
searched,  was  something  he  could  not  meet.  He  tried 
to  pull  himself  together  for  some  sort  of  protest,  but 
he  ended  by  hanging  his  head  in  silence.  He  always 
believed  that  Squire  Gaylord  had  liked  him,  and  here 


A  MODEKN  INSTANCE.  93 

he  was  treating  him  like  his  bitterest  enemy,  and 
seeming  to  enjoy  his  misery.  He  could  not  under- 
stand it;  he  thought  it  extremely  unjust,  and  past  all 
the  measure  of  his  offence.  This  was  true,  perhaps ; 
but  it  is  doubtful  if  Bartley  would  have  accepted  any 
suffering,  no  matter  how  nicely  proportioned,  in  pun- 
ishment of  his  wrong-doing.  He  sat  hanging  his  head, 
and  taking  his  pain  in  rebellious  silence,  with  a  gath- 
ering hate  in  his  heart  for  the  old  man. 

"  M-well ! "  said  the  Squire,  at  last,  rising  from  his 
chair,  "  I  guess  I  must  be  going." 

Bartley  sprang  to  his  feet  aghast.  "  You  're  not 
going  to  leave  me  in  the  lurch,  are  you  ?  You  're 
not  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  take  care  of  you,  young  man,  —  don't 
be  afraid.  I  Ve  stood  your  friend  too  long,  and  your 
name  's  been  mixed  up  too  much  with  my  girl's,  for 
me  to  let  you  come  to  shame  openly,  if  I  can  help 
it.  I  'm  going  to  see  Dr.  Wills  about  you,  and  I  'm 
going  to  see  Mrs.  Bird,  and  try  to  patch  it  up  some- 
how." 

"  And  —  and  —  where  shall  I  go  ? "  gasped  Bartley. 

"  You  might  go  to  the  Devil,  for  all  I  cared  for  you," 
said  the  old  man,  with  the  contempt  which  he  no 
longer  cared  to  make  ironical.  "  But  I  guess  you 
better  go  back  to  your  office,  and  go  to  work  as  if 
nothing  had  happened  —  till  something  does  happen. 
I  shall  close  the  paper  out  as  soon  as  I  can.  I  was 
thinking  of  doing  that  just  before  you  came  in.  I 
was  thinking  of  taking  you  into  the  law  business 
with  me.  Marcia  and  I  were  talking  about  it  here. 
But  I  guess  you  would  n't  like  the  idea  now." 

He  seemed  to  get  a  bitter  satisfaction  out  of  these 
mockeries,  from  which,  indeed,  he  must  have  suffered 
quite  as  much  as  Bartley.  But  he  ended,  sadly  and 
almost  compassionately,  with,  "  Come,  come !  You 
must  start  some  time."  And  Bartley  dragged  his 


94  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

leaden  weight  out  of  the  door.  The  Squire  closed  it 
after  him  ;  hut  he  did  not  accompany  him  down  the 
street.  It  was  plain  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  any 
longer  alone  with  Bartley,  and  the  young  man  sus- 
pected, with  a  sting  of  shaine,  that  he  scorned  to  be 
seen  with  him. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  95 


VIII. 

THE  more  Bartley  dwelt  upon  his  hard  case,  during 
the  week  that  followed,  the  more  it  appeared  to  him 
that  he  was  punished  out  of  all  proportion  to  his  of- 
fence. He  was  in  no  mood  to  consider  such  mercies 
as  that  he  had  been  spared  from  seriously  hurting 
Bird ;  and  that  Squire  Gay  lord  and  Doctor  Wills  had 
united  with  Henry's  mother  in  saving  him  from  open 
disgrace.  The  physician,  indeed,  had  perhaps  in- 
dulged a  professional  passion  for  hushing  the  matter 
up,  rather  than  any  pity  for  Bartley.  He  probably 
had  the  scientific  way  of  looking  at  such  questions ; 
and  saw  much  physical  cause  for  moral  effects.  He 
refrained,  with  the  physician's  reticence,  from  inquir- 
ing into  the  affair ;  but  he  would  not  have  thought 
Bartley  without  excuse  under  the  circumstances.  In 
regard  to  the  relative  culpability  in  matters  of  the 
kind,  his  knowledge  of  women  enabled  him  to  take 
much  the  view  of  the  woman's  share  that  other  wo- 
men take. 

But  Bartley  was  ignorant  of  the  doctor's  leniency, 
and  associated  him  with  Squire  Gay  lord  in  the  feel- 
ing that  made  his  last  week  in  Equity  a  period  of 
social  outlawry.  There  were  moments  in  which  he 
could  not  himself  escape  the  same  point  of  view.  He 
could  rebel  against  the  severity  of  the  condemnation 
he  had  fallen  under  in  the  eyes  of  Marcia  and  her 
father ;  he  could,  in  the  light  of  example  and  usage, 
laugh  at  the  notion  of  harm  in  his  behavior  to  Han- 
nah Morrison ;  yet  he  found  himself  looking  at  it  as 


96  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

a  treachery  to  Marcia.  Certainly,  she  had  no  right 
to  question  his  conduct  before  his  engagement.  Yet, 
if  he  knew  that  Marcia  loved  him,  and  was  waiting 
with  life-and-death  anxiety  for  some  word  of  love  from 
him,  it  was  cruelly  false  to  play  with  another  at  the 
passion  which  was  such  a  tragedy  to  her.  This  was 
(the  point  that,  put  aside  however  often,  still  present- 
*ed  itself,  and  its  recurrence,  if  he  could  have  known 
it,  was  mercy  and  reprieve  from  the  only  source  out 
of  which  these  could  come. 

Hannah  Morrison  did  not  return  to  the  printing- 
office,  and  Bird  was  still  sick,  though  it  was  now  only 
a  question  of  time  when  he  should  be  out  again. 
Bartley  visited  him  some  hours  every  day,  and  sat 
and  suffered  under  the  quiet  condemnation  of  his 
mother's  eyes.  She  had  kept  Hartley's  secret  with 
the  same  hardness  with  which  she  had  refused  him 
her  forgiveness,  and  the  village  had  settled  down  into 
an  ostensible  acceptance  of  the  theory  of  a  faint  as 
the  beginning  of  Bird's  sickness,  with  such  other  con- 
jectures as  the  doctor  freely  permitted  each  to  form. 
Bartley  found  his  chief  consolation  in  the  work  which 
kept  him  out  of  the  way  of  a  great  deal  of  question. 
He  worked  far  into  the  night,  as  he  must,  to  make  up 
for  the  force  that  was  withdrawn  from  the  office.  At 
the  same  time  he  wrote  more  than  ever  in  the  paper, 
and  he  discovered  in  himself  that  dual  life  of  which 
every  one  who  sins  or  sorrows  is  sooner  or  later 
aware :  that  strange  separation  of  the  intellectual 
activity  from  the  suffering  of  the  soul,  by  which  the 
mind  toils  on  in  a  sort  of  ironical  indifference  to  the 
pangs  that  wring  the  heart;  the  realization  that,  in 
some  ways,  his  brain  can  get  on  perfectly  well  with- 
out his  conscience. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  sympathy  felt  for  Bart- 
ley at  this  time,  and  his  popularity  in  Equity  was 
never  greater  than  now  when  his  life  there  was  draw* 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  97 

ing  to  a  close.  The  spectacle  of  his  diligence  was  so 
impressive  that  when,  on  the  following  Sunday,  the 
young  minister  who  had  succeeded  to  the  pulpit  o* 
the  orthodox  church  preached  a  sermon  on  the  beauty 
of  industry  from  the  text  "  Consider  the  lilies,"  there 
were  many  who  said  that  they  thought  of  Bartley  the 
whole  while,  and  one  —  a  lady  —  asked  Mr.  Savin  if 
he  did  not  have  Mr.  Hubbard  in  mind  in  the  picture 
he  drew  of  the  Heroic  Worker.  They  wished  that 
Bartley  could  have  heard  that  sermon. 

Marcia  had  gone  away  early  in  the  week  to  visit  in 
the  town  where  she  used  to  go  to  school,  and  Bartley 
took  her  going  away  as  a  sign  that  she  wished  to  put 
herself  wholly  beyond  his  reach,  or  any  danger  of  re^ 
lenting  at  sight  of  him.  He  talked  with  no  one  about 
her ;  and  going  and  coming  irregularly  to  his  meals, 
and  keeping  himself  shut  up  in  his  room  when  he  was 
not  at  work,  he  left  people  very  little  chance  to  talk 
with  him.  But  they  conjectured  that  he  and  Marcia 
had  an  understanding ;  and  some  of  the  ladies  used 
such  scant  opportunity  as  he  gave  them  to  make  sly 
allusions  to  her  absence  and  his  desolate  condition. 
They  were  confirmed  in  their  surmise  by  the  fact, 
known  from  actual  observation,  that  Bartley  had  not 
spoken  a  word  to  any  other  young  lady  since  Marcia 
went  away. 

"  Look  here,  my  friend,"  said  the  philosopher  from 
the  logging-camp,  when  he  came  in  for  his  paper  on 
the  Tuesday  afternoon  following,  "  seems  to  me  from 
what  I  hear  tell  around  here,  you're  tryin'  to  kill 
yourself  on  this  newspaper.  Now,  it  won't  do ;  I  tell 
you  it  won't  do." 

Bartley  was  addressing  for  the  mail  the  papers 
which  one  of  the  girls  was  folding.  "  What  are  you 
going  to  do  about  it  ? "  he  demanded  of  his  sympa- 
thizer with  whimsical  sullenness,  not  troubling  him- 
self to  look  up  at  him. 

7 


98  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  Well,  I  haint  exactly  settled  yet,"  replied  the  phi- 
losopher, who  was  of  a  tall,  lank  figure,  and  of  a 
mighty  brown  beard.  "  But  I  've  been  around  pretty 
much  everywhere,  and  I  find  that  about  the  poorest 
use  you  can  put  a  man  to  is  to  kill  him." 

"  It  depends  a  good  deal  on  the  man,"  said  Bart- 
ley.  "  But  that 's  stale,  Kinney.  It 's  the  old  formula 
of  the  anti-capital-punishment  fellows.  Try  some- 
thing else.  They  're  not  talking  of  hanging  me  yet." 
He  kept  on  writing,  and  the  philosopher  stood  over 
him  with  a  humorous  twinkle  of  enjoyment  at 
Bartley's  readiness. 

"Well,  I'll  allow  it's  old,"  he  admitted.  "So's 
Homer." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  don't  pretend  that  you  wrote  Ho- 
mer." 

Kinney  laughed  mightily ;  then  he  leaned  forward, 
and  slapped  Bartley  on  the  shoulder  with  his  news- 
paper. "  Look  here  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  like  you  ! " 

"  Oh,  try  some  other  tack !  Lots  of  fellows  like 
me."  Bartley  kept  on  writing.  "I  gave  you  your 
paper,  did  n't  I,  Kinney  ? " 

"  You  mean  that  you  want  me  to  get  out  ? " 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  say  so." 

This  delighted  Kinney  as  much  as  the  last  refine- 
ment of  hospitality  would  have  pleased  another  man. 
"  Look  here  ! "  he  said,  "  I  want  you  should  come  out 
and  see  our  camp.  I  can't  fool  away  any  more  time 
on  you  here ;  but  I  want  you  should  come  out  and  see 
us.  Give  you  something  to  write  about.  Hey  ?" 

"  The  invitation  comes  at  a  time  when  circumstan- 
ces over  which  I  have  no  control  oblige  me  to  decline 
it.  I  admire  your  prudence,  Kinney." 

"No,  honest  Injian,  now,"  protested  Kinney. 
"Take  a  day  off,  and  fill  up  with  dead  advertise- 
ments. That 's  the  way  they  used  to  do  out  in  Alkali 
City  when  they  got  short  of  help  on  the  Eagle,  and 
we  liked  it  just  as  well." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  99 

"  Now  you  are  talking  sense,"  said  Bartley,  looking 
up  at  him.  "  How  far  is  it  to  your  settlement  ? " 

"  Two  miles,  if  you  're  goin' ;  three  and  a  half,  if 
you  aint." 

"  When  are  you  coming  in  ?  " 

"  I  'm  in,  now." 

"  I  can't  go  with  you  to-day." 

"  Well,  how  '11  to-morrow  morning  suit  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  morning  will  suit,"  said  Bartley. 

"  All  right.  If  anybody  comes  to  see  the  editor 
to-morrow  morning,  Marilla, "  said  Kinney  to  the 
girl,  "  you  tell  'em  he  's  sick,  and  gone  a-loggin',  and 
won't  be  back  till  Saturday.  Say,"  he  added,  laying 
his  hand  on  Hartley's  shoulder,  "  you  aint  foolin'  ?  " 

"  If  I  am,"  replied  Bartley,  "just  mention  it." 

"  Good  !  "  said  Kinney.     "  To-morrow  it  is,  then." 

Bartley  finished  addressing  the  newspapers,  and 
then  he  put  them  up  in  wrappers  and  packages  for 
the  mail.  "  You  can  go,  now,  Marilla,"  he  said  to  the 
girl.  "  1 11  leave  some  copy  for  you  and  Kitty ;  you  '11 
find  it  on  my  table  in  the  morning." 

"  All  right,"  answered  the  girl. 

Bartley  went  to  his  supper,  which  he  ate  with 
more  relish  than  he  had  felt  for  his  meals  since  his 
troubles  began,  and  he  took  part  in  the  supper-table 
talk  with  something  of  his  old  audacity.  The  change 
interested  the  lady  boarders,  and  they  agreed  that  he 
must  have  had  a  letter.  He  returned  to  his  office, 
and  worked  till  nine  o'clock,  writing  and  selecting 
matter  out  of  his  exchanges.  He  spent  most  of  tht 
time  in  preparing  the  funny  column,  which  was  a 
favorite  feature  in  the  Free  Press.  Then  he  put  the 
copy  where  the  girls  would  find  it  in  the  morning, 
and,  leaving  the  door  unlocked,  took  his  way  up  the 
street  toward  Squire  Gaylord's. 

He  knew  that  he  should  find  the  lawyer  in  hia 
office,  and  he  opened  the  office  door  without  knock' 


100  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

ing,  and  went  in.  He  had  not  met  Squire  Gaylord 
since  the  morning  of  his  dismissal,  and  the  old  man 
had  left  him  for  the  past  eight  days  without  any  sign 
as  to  what  he  expected  of  Bartley,  or  of  what  he 
intended  to  do  in  his  affair. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  but  exchanged  no  sort 
of  greeting,  as  Bartley,  unbidden,  took  a  chair  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  stove ;  the  Squire  did  not  put 
down  the  book  he  had  been  reading. 

"  I  Ve  come  to  see  what  you  're  going  to  do  about 
the  Free  Press,"  said  Bartley. 

The  old  man  rubbed  his  bristling  jaw,  that  seemed 
even  lanker  than  when  Bartley  saw  it  last.  He 
waited  almost  a  minute  before  he  replied,  "  I  don't 
know  as  I  Ve  got  any  call  to  tell  you." 

"  Then  1 11  tell  you  what  1  'm  going  to  do  about 
it,"  retorted  Bartley.  "  I  'ni  going  to  leave  it.  I  Ve 
done  my  last  day's  work  on  that  paper.  Do  you 
think,"  he  cried,  angrily,  "  that  I  'm  going  to  keep  on 
in  the  dark,  and  let  you  consult  your  pleasure  as  to 
rny  future  ?  No,  sir  !  You  don't  know  your  man 
quite,  Mr.  Gaylord  !  " 

"  You  Ve  got  over  your  scare,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  I  Ve  got  over  my  scare,"  Bartley  retorted. 

"And  you  think,  because  you're  not  afraid  any 
longer,  that  you  're  out  of  danger.  I  know  my  man 
as  well  as  you  do,  I  guess." 

"  If  you  think  I  care  for  the  danger,  I  don't.  You 
may  do  what  you  please.  Whatever  you  do,  I  shall 
know  it  is  n't  out  of  kindness  for  me.  I  did  n't 
believe  from  the  first  that  the  law  could  touch  me, 
and  I  was  n't  uneasy  on  that  account.  But  I  did  n't 
want  to  involve  myself  in  a  public  scandal,  for  Miss 
Gaylord's  sake.  Miss  Gaylord  has  released  me  from 
any  obligations  to  her ;  and  now  you  may  go  ahead 
and  do  what  you  like."  Each  of  the  men  knew  ho\v 
much  truth  there  was  in  this ;  but  for  the  moment; 


/. 
I  A  MODERN  INSTANCE.    Jf  101 

in  his  anger,  BaTtley  believed  himself  sincere,  and 
there  is  no  question  but  his  defiance  was  so.  Squire 
Gaylord  made  him  no  answer,  and  after  a  minute  of 
expectation  Bartley  added,  "  At  any  rate,  I  Ve  done 
with  the  Free  Press.  I  advise  you  to  stop  the  paper, 
and  hand  the  office  over  to  Henry  Bird,  when  he  gets 
about.  I  'm  going  out  to  Willett's  logging-camp  to- 
morrow, and  I  'm  coming  back  to  Equity  on  Saturday. 
You  11  know  where  to  rind  me  till  then,  and  after  that 
you  may  look  me  up  if  you  want  me." 

He  rose  to  go,  but  stopped  with  his  hand  on  the 
door-knob,  at  a  sound,  preliminary  to  speaking,  which 
the  old  man  made  in  his  throat.  Bartley  stopped, 
hoping  for  a  further  pretext  of  quarrel,  but  the  law- 
yer merely  asked,  "  Where 's  the  key  ?  " 

"  It 's  in  the  office  door." 

The  old  man  now  looked  at  him  as  if  he  no  longer 
saw  him,  and  Bartley  went  out,  balked  of  his  pur- 
pose in  part,  and  in  that  degree  so  much  the  more 
embittered. 

Squire  Gaylord  remained  an  hour  longer ;  then  he 
blew  out  his  lamp,  and  left  the  little  office  for  the 
night.  A  light  was  burning  in  the  kitchen,  and  he 
made  his  way  round  to  the  back  door  of  the  house, 
and  let  himself  in.  His  wife  was  there,  sitting  before 
the  stove,  in  those  last  delicious  moments  before 
going  to  bed,  when  all  the  house  is  mellowed  to  such 
a  warmth  that  it  seems  hard  to  leave  it  to  the  cold 
and  dark.  In  this  poor  lady,  who  had  so  long 
denied  herself  spiritual  comfort,  there  was  a  certain 
obscure  luxury :  she  liked  little  dainties  of  the  table ; 
she  liked  soft  warmth,  an  easy  cushion.  It  was 
doubtless  in  the  disintegration  of  the  finer  qualities 
of  her  nature,  that,  as  they  grew  older  together,  she 
threw  more  and  more  the  burden  of  acute  feeling 
upon  her  husband,  to  whose  doctrine  of  life  she  had 
submitted,  but  had  never  been  reconciled.  Marriage 


71717A 

QL 


102  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

is,  with  all  its  disparities,  a  much  more  equal  tiling 
than  appears,  and  the  meek  little  wife,  who  has  all 
the  advantage  of  public  sympathy,  knows  her  power 
over  her  oppressor,  and  at  some  tender  spot  in  his 
affections  or  his  nerves  can  inflict  an  anguish  that 
will  avenge  her  for  years  of  coarser  aggression. 
Thrown  in  upon  herself  in  so  vital  a  matter  as  her 
religion,  Mrs.  Gaylord  had  involuntarily  come  to 
live  largely  for  herself,  though  her  talk  was  always 
of  her  husband.  She  gave  up  for  him,  as  she  be- 
lieved, her  soul's  salvation,  but  she  held  him  to 
account  for  the  uttermost  farthing  of  the  price.  She 
padded  herself  round  at  every  point  where  she  could 
have  suffered  through  her  sensibilities,  and  lived 
soft  and  snug  in  the  shelter  of  his  iron  will  and 
indomitable  courage.  It  was  '  not  apathy  that  she 
had  felt  when  their  children  died  one  after  another, 
but  an  obscure  and  formless  exultation  that  Mr. 
Gaylord  would  suffer  enough  for  both. 

Marcia  was  the  youngest,  and  her  mother  left  her 
training  almost  wholly  to  her  father ;  she  sometimes 
said  that  she  never  supposed  the  child  would  live. 
She  did  not  actually  urge  this  in  excuse,  but  she  had 
the  appearance  of  doing  so ;  and  she  held  aloof  from 
them  both  in  their  mutual  relations,  with  mildly  crit- 
ical reserves.  They  spoiled  each  other,  as  father  and 
daughter  are  apt  to  do  when  left  to  themselves. 
What  was  good  in  the  child  certainly  received  no 
harm  from  his  indulgence ;  and  what  was  naughty 
was  after  all  not  so  very  naughty.  She  was  pas- 
sionate, but  she  was  generous ;  and  if  she  showed  a 
jealous  temperament  that  must  hereafter  make  her 
unhappy,  for  the  time  being  it  charmed,  and  flattered 
her  father  to  have  her  so  fond  of  him  that  she  could 
not  endure  any  rivalry  in  his  affection. 

Her  education*  proceeded  fitfully.  He  would  not 
let  her  be  forced  to  household  tasks  that  she  disliked; 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  105 

And  as  a  little  girl  she  went  to  school  chiefly  because 
she  liked  to  go,  and  not  because  she  would  have  been 
obliged  to  it  if  she  had  not  chosen.  When  she  grew 
older,  she  wished  to  go  away  to  school,  and  her  father 
allowed  her;  he  had  no  great  respect  for  boarding- 
schools,  but  if  Marcia  wanted  to  try  it,  he  was  willing 
to  humor  the  joke. 

What  resulted  was  a  great  proficiency  in  the  things 
that  pleased  her,  and  ignorance  of  the  other  things. 
Her  father  bought  her  a  piano,  on  which  she  did  not 
play  much,  and  he  bought  her  whatever  dresses  she 
fancied.  He  never  came  home  from  a  journey  with- 
out bringing  her  something;  and  he  liked  to  take  her 
with  him  when  he  went  away  to  other  places.  She 
had  been  several  times  at  Portland,  and  once  at  Mont- 
real ;  he  was  very  proud  of  her ;  he  could  not  see  that 
any  one  was  better-looking,  or  dressed  any  better  than 
his  girl. 

He  came  into  the  kitchen,  and  sat  down  with  his 
hat  on,  and,  taking  his  chin  between  his  fingers,  moved 
uneasily  about  on  his  chair. 

"  What 's  brought  you  in  so  early  ? "  asked  his 
wife. 

"  Well,  I  got  through,"  he  briefly  explained.  Af- 
ter a  while  he  said,  "  Bartley  Hubbard  's  been  out 
there." 

"  You  don't  mean  't  he  knew  she  —  " 

"  No,  he  did  n't  know  anything  about  that.  He 
came  to  tell  me  he  was  going  away." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  're  going  to  do,  Mr. 
Gay  lord,"  said  his  wife,  shifting  the  responsibility 
wholly  upon  him.  "  'D  he  seem  to  want  to  make 
it  up?" 

"  M-no ! "  said  the  Squire,  "  he  was  on  his  high 
horse.  He  knows  he  aint  in  any  danger  now." 

"  Aint  you  afraid  she  '11  carry  OIL  djeajiMly,  when 
ihe  finds  out 't  he  's  gone  for  good  ?  asked  Mrs.  Gay- 


104  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

lord,  with  a  sort  of  implied  satisfaction  that  the  carry* 
ing  on  was  not  to  affect  her. 

"  M-yes,"  said  the  Squire,  "  I  suppose  she  '11  carry 
m.  But  I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  it.  Some- 
times I  almost  wish  I  'd  tried  to  make  it  up  between 
'em  that  day ;  but  I  thought  she  'd  better  see,  once 
for  all,  what  sort  of  man  she  was  going  in  for,  if  she 
married  him.  It 's  too  late  now  to  do  anything.  The 
fellow  came  in  to-night  for  a  quarrel,  and  nothing 
else;  I  could  see  that;  and  I  didn't  give  him  any 
chance." 

"  You  feel  sure,"  asked  Mrs.  Gaylord,  impartially, 
"  that  Marcia  wa'n't  too  particular  ?  " 

"  No,  Miranda,  I  don't  feel  sure  of  anything,  except 
that  it 's  past  your  bed-time.  You  better  go.  I  '11 
sit  up  awhile  yet.  I  came  in  because  I  couldn't 
settle  my  mind  to  anything  out  there." 

He  took  off  his  hat  in  token  of  his  intending  to 
spend  the  rest  of  the  evening  at  home,  and  put  it  on 
the  table  at  his  elbow. 

His  wife  sewed  at  the  mending  in  her  lap,  without 
offering  to  act  upon  his  suggestion.  "  It 's  plain  to  be 
seen  that  she  can't  get  along  without  him." 

"  She  11  have  to,  now,"  replied  the  Squire. 

"  I  'm  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Gaylord,  softly, "  that  she  '11 
be  down  sick.  She  don't  look  as  if  she  'd  slept  any 
great  deal  since  she  's  been  gone.  I  d'  know  as  I  like 
very  much  to  see  her  looking  the  way  she  does.  I 
guess  you  've  got  to  take  her  off  somewheres." 

"  Why,  she  's  just  been  off,  and  could  n't  stay  ! " 

"  That 's  because  she  thought  he  was  here  yet.  Buti 
if  he  's  gone,  it  won't  be  the  same  thing." 

"  Well,  we  've  got  to  fight  it  out,  some  way,"  said 
the  Squire.  "  It  would  n't  do  to  give  in  to  it  now. 
It  always  was  too  much  of  a  one-sided  thing,  at  the 
best ;  and  if  we  tried  now  to  mend  it  up,  it  would  be 
ridiculous.  I  don't  believe  he  would  come  back  at 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  105 

all,  now,  and  if  he  did,  he  would  n't  come  back  on  any 
equal  terms.  He  'd  want  to  have  everything  his  own 
way.  M-no  ! "  said  the  Squire,  as  if  confirming  him- 
self in  a  conclusion  often  reached  already  in  his  own 
mind, "  I  saw  by  the  way  he  began  to-night  that  there 
was  n't  anything  to  be  done  with  him.  It  was  fight 
from  the  word  go." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Gaylord,  with  gentle,  sceptica) 
interest  in  the  outcome,  "  if  you  've  made  up  youi 
mind  to  that,  I  hope  you  '11  be  able  to  carry  it 
through." 

"  That 's  what  I  've  made  up  my  mind  to,"  said  her 
husband. 

Mrs.  Gaylord  rolled  up  the  sewing  in  her  work- 
basket,  and  packed  it  away  against  the  side,  bracing 
it  with  several  pairs  of  newly  darned  socks  and  stock- 
ings neatly  folded  one  into  the  other.  She  took  her 
time  for  this,  and  when  she  rose  at  last  to  go  out,  with 
her  basket  in  her  hand,  the  door  opened  in  her  face, 
and  Marcia  entered.  Mrs.  Gaylord  shrank  back,  and 
then  slipped  round  behind  her  daughter  and  vanished. 
The  girl  took  no  notice  of  her  mother,  but  went  and 
sat  down  on  her  father's  knee,  throwing  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  dropping  her  haggard  face  on  his 
shoulder.  She  had  arrived  at  home  a  few  hours 
earlier,  having  driven  over  from  a  station  ten  miles 
distant,  on  a  road  that  did  not  pass  near  Equity.  Af- 
ter giving  as  much  of  a  shock  to  her  mother's  mild 
nature  as  it  was  capable  of  receiving  by  her  unex- 
pected return,  she  had  gone  to  her  own  room,  and  re- 
mained ever  since  without  seeing  her  father.  He  put 
up  his  thin  old  hand  and  passed  it  over  her  hair,  but 
it  was  long  before  either  of  them  spoke. 

At  last  Marcia  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  her 
father  in  the  face  with  a  smile  so  pitiful  that  he  could 
not  bear  to  meet  it.  "  Well,  father  ? "  she  said. 

"  Well,  Marsh,"  he  answered  huskily. 


106  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  me  now  ? " 

"  I  'm  glad  to  have  you  back  again,"  he  replied. 

"  You  know  why  I  came  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  guess  I  know." 

She  put  down  her  head  again,  and  moaned  and 
cried,  "  Father !  Father ! "  with  dry  sobs.  When  she 
looked  up,  confronting  him  with  her  tearless  eyes, 
"  What  shall  I  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  ? "  she  demanded 
desolately. 

He  tried  to  clear  his  throat  to  speak,  but  it  re- 
quired more  than  one  effort  to  bring  the  words.  "  I 
guess  you  better  go  along  with  me  up  to  Boston.  I  'm 
going  up  the  first  of  the  week." 

"  No,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  The  change  would  do  you  good.  It 's  a  long 
while  since  you've  been  away  from  home,"  her 
father  urged. 

She  looked  at  him  in  sad  reproach  of  his  uncandor. 
"You  know  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  me, 
father.  You  know  what  the  trouble  is."  He  was 
silent.  He  could  not  face  the  trouble.  "  I  've  heard 
people  talk  of  a  heartache,"  she  went  on.  "  I  never 
believed  there  was  really  such  a  thing.  But  I  know 
there  is,  now.  There 's  a  pain  here."  She  pressed 
her  hand  against  her  breast.  "  It 's  sore  with  aching. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  I  shall  have  to  live  through  it 
somehow." 

"  If  you  don't  feel  exactly  well,"  said  her  father 
u  I  guess  you  better  see  the  doctor." 

"  What  shall  I  tell  him  is  the  matter  with  me  '< 
That  I  want  Bartley  Hubbard  ? "  He  winced  at  the 
words,  but  she  did  not.  "He  knows  that  already. 
Everybody  in  town  does.  It's  never  been  any  secret. 
I  could  n't  hide  it,  from  the  first  day  I  saw  him.  I  'd 
just  as  lief  as  not  they  should  say  I  was  dying  foi 
him.  I  shall  not  care  what  they  say  when  I  'ui 
dead." 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  107 

"You  'd  ought  n't,  —  you'd  ought  n't  to  talk  that 
way,  Marcia,"  said  her  father,  gently. 

"  What  difference  ? "  she  demanded,  scornfully. 
There  was  truly  no  difference,  so  far  as  concerned  any 
creed  of  his,  and  he  was  too  honest  to  make  further 
pretence.  "What  shall  I  do?"  she  went  on  again. 
"  I  Ve  thought  of  praying ;  but  what  would  be  the 
use  ? " 

"  I  Ve  never  denied  that  there  was  a  God,  Marcia," 
said  her  father. 

"  Oh,  I  know.  That  kind  of  God !  Well,  weU  !  I 
know  that  I  talk  like  a  crazy  person  !  Do  you  suppose 
it  was  providential,  my  being  with  you  in  the  office 
that  morning  when  Bartley  came  in  ? " 

"  No,"  said  her  father,  "  I  don't.  I  think  it  was  a-fl 
accident." 

"  Mother  said  it  was  providential,  my  finding  hir*. 
out  before  it  was  too  late." 

"  I  think  it  was  a  good  thing.  The  fellow  has  the 
making  of  a  first-class  scoundrel  in  him." 

"  Do  you  think  he 's  a  scoundrel  now  ?  "  she  asked 
quietly. 

"  He  has  n't  had  any  great  opportunity  yet,"  said 
the  old  man,  conscientiously  sparing  him. 

"  Well,  then,  I  'm  sorry  I  found  him  out.  Yes  !  If 
I  had  n't,  I  might  have  married  him,  and  perhaps  if  I 
had  died  soon  I  might  never  have  found  him  out. 
He  could  have  been  good  to  me  a  year  or  two,  and 
then,  if  I  died,  I  should  have  been  safe.  Yes,  I  wish 
he  could  have  deceived  me  till  after  we  were  married. 
Then  I  could  n't  have  borne  to  give  him  up,  may 
be." 

"  You  would  have  given  him  up,  even  then.  And 
that 's  the  only  thing  that  reconciles  me  to  it  now. 
I  'm  sorry  for  you,  my  girl ;  but  you  'd  have  made  m« 
sorrier  then.  Sooner  or  later  he  'd  have  broken  youl 
heart." 


108  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  He 's  broken  it  now,"  said  the  girl,  calmly. 

"  Oh,  no,  he  has  n't,"  replied  her  father,  with  a  false 
cheerfulness  that  did  not  deceive  her.  "  You  're  young, 
and  you  '11  get  over  it.  I  mean  to  take  you  away 
from  here  for  a  while.  I  mean  to  take  you  up  to 
Boston,  and  on  to  New  York.  I  should  n't  care  if  we 
went  as  far  as  Washington.  I  guess,  when  you  've 
seen  a  little  more  of  the  world,  you  won't  think  Bart* 
ley  Hubbard  's  the  only  one  in  it." 

She  looked  at  him  so  intently  that  he  thought  she 
must  be  pleased  at  his  proposal.  "  Do  you  think  I 
could  get  him  back  ?  "  she  asked. 

Her  father  lost  his  patience ;  it  was  a  relief  to  be 
angry.  "  No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  know  you  could  n't. 
And  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  mentioning  such  a 
thing ! " 

"  Oh,  ashamed !  No,  I  Ve  got  past  that.  I  have 
no  shame  any  more  where  he 's  concerned.  Oh,  I  'd 
give  the  world  if  I  could  call  him  back,  —  if  I  could 
only  undo  what  I  did  !  I  was  wild ;  I  was  n't  reason- 
able ;  I  would  n't  listen  to  him.  I  drove  him  away 
without  giving  him  a  chance  to  say  a  word !  Of 
course,  he  must  hate  me  now.  What  makes  you  think 
he  would  n't  come  back  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  know  he  would  n't,"  answered  her  father,  with  a 
sort  of  groan.  "  He  's  going  to  leave  Equity  for  one 
thing,  and  —  " 

"  Going  to  leave  Equity,"  she  repeated,  absently 
Then  he  felt  her  tremble.  "  How  do  you  know  he  'a 
going  ? "  She  turned  upon  her  father,  and  fixed  him 
sternly  with  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  would  stay,  after  what 's  hap- 
pened, any  longer  than  he  could  help  ? " 

"  How  do  you  know  he 's  going  ? "  she  repeated. 

"  He  told  me." 

She  stood  up.     "  He  told  you  ?     When  2 " 

«  To-  night." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  109 

"Why,  where  —  where  did  you  see  him?"  she 
whispered. 

"  In  the  office." 

"  Since  —  since  —  I  came  ?  Bartley  been  here  1 
And  you  did  n't  tell  me,  —  you  did  n't  let  me  know  ? " 
They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  At  last, 
"  When  is  he  going  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  To-morrow  morning." 

She  sat  down  in  the  chair  which  her  mother  had 
left,  and  clutched  the  back  of  another,  on  which  her 
fingers  opened  and  closed  convulsively,  while  she 
caught  her  breath  in  irregular  gasps.  She  broke  into 
a  low  moaning,  at  last,  the  expression  of  abject  defeat 
in  the  struggle  she  had  waged  with  herself.  Her 
father  watched  her  with  dumb  compassion.  "  Better 
go  to  bed,  Marcia,"  he  said,  with  the  same  dry  calm 
as  if  he  had  been  sending  her  away  after  some  pleas- 
ant evening  which  she  had  suffered  to  run  too  far  into 
the  night. 

"  Don't  you  think  —  don't  you  think  —  he  '11  have 
to  see  you  again  before  he  goes  ? "  she  made  out  to 
ask. 

"No;  he's  finished  up  with  me,"  said  the  old 
man. 

"  Well,  then,"  she  cried,  desperately,  "  you'll  have 
to  go  to  him,  father,  and  get  him  to  come !  I  can't 
help  it !  I  can't  give  him  up  !  You  've  got  to  go  to 
him,  now,  father,  —  yes,  yes,  you  have  !  You  've  got 
to  go  and  tell  him.  Go  and  get  him  to  come,  for 
mercy  s  sake !  Tell  him  that  I  'm  sorry,  —  that  I  beg 
his  pardon,  —  that  I  did  n't  think  —  I  did  n't  under- 
stand, —  that  I  knew  he  did  n't  do  anything  wrong  —  " 
She  rose,  and,  placing  her  hand  on  her  father's 
shoulder,  accented  each  entreaty  with  a  little  push. 

He  looked  up  into  her  face  with  a  haggard  smile  of 
sympathy.     "  You  're  crazy,  Marcia,"  he  said,  gently. 
,    "  Don't  laugh ! "  she  cried.     "  I  'm  not  crazy  now. 


110  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

But  I  was,  then,  —  yes,  stark,  staring  crazy.  Look 
here,  father !  I  want  to  tell  you,  —  I  want  to  explain 
to  you!"  She  dropped  upon  his  knee  again,  and 
tremblingly  passed  her  arm  round  his  neck.  "  You 
see,  I  had  just  told  him  the  day  before  that  I  should 
n't  care  for  anything  that  happened  before  we  were 
angaged,  and  then  at  the  very  first  thing  I  went  and 
threw  him  off!  And  I  had  no  right  to  do  it.  He 
knows  that,  and  that's  what  makes  him  so  hard 
towards  me.  But  if  you  go  and  tell  him  that  I  see 
now  I  was  all  wrong,  and  that  I  beg  his  pardon,  and 
then  ask  him  to  give  me  one  more  trial,  just  one  more  — 
You  can  do  as  much  as  that  for  me,  can't  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  poor,  crazy  girl ! "  groaned  her  father. 
"  Don't  you  see  that  the  trouble  is  in  what  the  fellow 
is,  and  not  in  any  particular  thing  that  he 's  done  ? 
He 's  a  scamp,  through  and  through  ;  and  he 's  all  the 
more  a  scamp  when  he  does  n't  know  it.  He  has  n't 
got  the  first  idea  of  anything  but  selfishness." 

"  No,  no  !  Now,  I  '11  tell  you,  —  now,  I  '11  prove  it 
to  you.  That  very  Sunday  when  we  were  out  riding 
together ;  and  we  met  her  and  her  mother,  and  their 
sleigh  upset,  and  he  had  to  lift  her  back ;  and  it  made 
me  wild  to  see  him,  and  I  would  n't  hardly  touch  him 
or  speak  to  him  afterwards,  he  did  n't  say  one  angry 
word  to  me.  He  just  pulled  me  up  to  him,  and 
would  n't  let  me  be  mad ;  and  he  said  that  night  he 
did  n't  mind  it  a  bit  because  it  showed  how  much  I 
liked  him.  Now,  does  n't  that  prove  he  's  good,  —  a 
good  deal  better  than  I  am,  and  that  he  '11  forgive  me, 
if  you  '11  go  and  ask  him  ?  I  know  he  is  n't  in  bed 
yet ;  he  always  sits  up  late,  —  he  told  me  so ;  and 
you  '11  find  him  there  in  his  room.  Go  straight  to  his 
room,  father;  don't  let  anybody  see  you  down  in  the 
office ;  I  could  n't  bear  it ;  and  slip  out  with  him  as 
quietly  as  you  can.  But,  oh,  do  hurry  now  !  Don't 
lose  another  minute ! " 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  Ill 

The  wild  joy  sprang  into  her  face,  as  her  father 
rose ;  a  joy  that  it  was  terrible  to  him  to  see  die  out 
of  it  as  he  spoke :  "  I  tell  you  it 's  no  use,  Marcia ! 
He  would  n't  come  if  I  went  to  him  —  " 

"Oh,  yes,  —  yes,  he  would!  I  know  he  would  I 
If  —  "' 

"  He  would  n't !  You  're  mistaken  !  I  should  have 
to  get  down  in  the  dust  for  nothing.  He 's  a  bad  fel- 
low, I  tell  you ;  and  you  've  got  to  give  him  up." 

"  You  hate  me ! "  cried  the  girl.  The  old  man 
walked  to  and  fro,  clutching  his  hands.  Their  lives 
had  always  been  in  such  intimate  sympathy,  his  life 
had  so  long  had  her  happiness  for  its  sole  pleasure, 
that  the  pang  in  her  heart  racked  his  with  as  sharp 
an  agony.  "  Well,  I  shall  die ;  and  then  I  hope  you 
will  be  satisfied." 

"  Marcia,  Marcia  ! "  pleaded  her  father.  "  You  don't 
know  what  you  're  saying." 

"  You  're  letting  him  go  away  from  me,  —  you  're 
letting  me  lose  him,  —  you  're  killing  me  ! " 

"  He  would  n't  come,  my  girl.  It  would  be  perfectly 
useless  to  go  to  him.  You  must  —  you  must  try  to 
control  yourself,  Marcia.  There 's  no  other  way,  — 
there 's  no  other  hope.  You  're  disgraceful.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed.  You  ought  to  have  some  pride  about 
you.  I  don't  know  what 's  come  over  you  since  you  've 
been  with  that  fellow.  You  seem  to  be  out  of  your 
senses.  But  try,  —  try,  my  girl,  to  get  over  it.  If 
you  '11  fight  it,  you  '11  conquer  yet.  You  've  got  a  spirit 
for  anything.  And  I  '11  help  you,  Marcia.  I  '11  take 
you  anywhere.  I  '11  do  anything  for  you  —  " 

"  You  would  n't  go  to  him,  and  ask  him  to  come 
here,  if  it  would  save  his  life  ! " 

"  No,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  desperate  quiet,  "  I 
would  n't." 

She  stood  looking  at  him,  and  then  she  sank  sud- 
denly and  straight  down,  as  if  she  were  sinking 


112  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

through  the  floor.  When  he  lifted  her,  he  saw  that 
she  was  in  a  dead  faint,  and  while  the  swoon  lasted 
would  be  out  of  her  misery.  The  sight  of  this  had 
wrung  him  so  that  he  had  a  kind  of  relief  in  looking 
at  her  lifeless  face ;  and  he  was  slow  in  laying  her 
down  again,  like  one  that  fears  to  wake  a  sleeping 
child.  Then  he  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and 
softly  called  to  his  wife:  "Miranda!  Miranda  1" 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  113 


IX. 


KINNEY  came  into  town  the  next  morning  bright 
and  early,  as  he  phrased  it ;  but  he  did  not  stop  at 
the  hotel  for  Bartley  till  nine  o'clock.  "  Thought  I  'd 
give  you  time  for  breakfast,"  he  exclaimed,  "  and  so  I 
did  n't  hurry  up  any  about  gettin'  in  my  supplies." 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  so  blindingly  sunny 
that  Bartley  winked  as  they  drove  up  through  the 
glistening  street,  and  was  glad  to  dip  into  the  gloom 
of  the  first  woods ;  it  was  not  cold ;  the  snow  felt  the 
warmth,  and  packed  moistly  under  their  runners. 
The  air  was  perfectly  still ;  at  a  distance  on  the 
mountain-sides  it  sparkled  as  if  full  of  diamond  dust. 
Far  overhead  some  crows  called. 

"  The  sun 's  getting  high,"  said  Bartley,  with  the 
light  sigh  of  one  to  whom  the  thought  of  spring 
brings  no  hope. 

"  Well,  I  should  n't  begin  to  plough  for  corn  just 
yet,"  replied  Kinney.  "It's  curious,"  he  went  on, 
"  to  see  how  anxious  we  are  to  have  a  thing  over,  it 
don't  much  matter  what  it  is,  whether  it 's  summer  or 
winter.  I  suppose  we'd  feel  different  if  we  wa'n't 
sure  there  was  going  to  be  another  of  'em.  I  guess 
that 's  one  reason  why  the  Lord  concluded  not  to  keep 
us  clearly  posted  on  the  question  of  another  life.  If 
it  wa'n't  for  the  uncertainty  of  the  thing,  there  are  a 
lot  of  fellows  like  you  that  would  n't  stand  it  here  a 
minute.  Why,  if  we  had  a  dead  sure  thing  of  over- 
the-river, — good  climate,  plenty  to  eat  and  wear,  and 
not  much  to  do,  —  I  don't  believe  any  of  us  would 

S 


114  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

keep  Darling  Minnie  waiting,  well,  a  great  while. 
But  you  see,  the  thing  's  all  on  paper,  and  that 
makes  us  cautious,  and  willing  to  hang  on  here  awhile 
longer.  Looks  splendid  on  the  map  :  streets  regularly 
laid  out ;  public  squares ;  band-stands ;  churches  ; 
solid  blocks  of  houses,  with  all  the  modern  improve- 
ments ;  but  you  can't  tell  whether  there 's  any  town 
there  till  you  're  on  the  ground ;  and  then,  if  you 
don't  like  it,  there's  no  way  of  gettin'  back  to 
the  States."  He  turned  round  upon  Bartley  and 
opened  his  mouth  wide,  to  imply  that  this  was 
pleasantry. 

"  Do  you  throw  your  philosophy  in,  all  under  the 
same  price,  Kinney  ? "  asked  the  young  fellow. 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  never  charge  anything  over,"  said 
Kinney.  "  You  see,  I  have  a  good  deal  of  time  to 
think  when  I  'm  around  by  myself  all  day,  and  the 
philosophy  don't  cost  me  anything,  and  the  fellows 
like  it.  Roughing  it  the  way  they  do,  they  can  stand 
'most  anything.  Hey  ?  "  He  now  not  only  opened 
his  mouth  upon  Bartley,  but  thrust  him  in  the  side 
with  his  elbow,  and  then  laughed  noisily. 

Kinney  was  the  cook.  He  had  been  over  pretty 
nearly  the  whole  uninhabitable  globe,  starting  as  a 
gaunt  and  awkward  boy  from  the  Maine  woods,  and 
keeping  until  he  came  back  to  them  in  late  middle- 
life  the  same  gross  and  ridiculous  optimism.  He  had 
been  at  sea,  and  shipwrecked  on  several  islands  in  the 
Pacific  ;  he  had  passed  a  rainy  season  at  Panama,  and 
a  yellow-fever  season  at  Vera  Cruz,  and  had  been 
carried,  far  into  the  interior  of  Peru  by  a  tidal  wave 
during  an  earthquake  season ;  he  was  in  the  Border 
Ruffian  War  of  Kansas,  and  he  clung  to  California  till 
prosperity  deserved  her  after  the  completion  of  the 
Pacific  road.  Wherever  he  went,  he  carried  or  found 
adversity ;  but,  with  a  heart  fed  on  the  metaphysics 
»f  Horace  Greeley,  and  buoyed  up  by  a  few  wildly  in- 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  115 

terpreted  maxims  of  Emerson,  he  had  always  believed 
in  other  men,  and  their  fitness  for  the  terrestrial  mil- 
lennium, which  was  never  more  than  ten  days  or  ten 
miles  off.  It  is  not  necessary  to  say  that  he  had  con- 
tinued as  poor  as  he  began,  and  that  he  was  never 
able  to  contribute  to  those  railroads,  mills,  elevators, 
towns,  and  cities  which  were  sure  to  be  built,  sir,  sure 
to  be  built,  wherever  he  went.  When  he  came  home 
at  last  to  the  woods,  some  hundreds  of  miles  north  of 
Equity,  he  found  that  some  one  had  realized  his  early 
dream  of  a  summer  hotel  on  the  shore  of  the  beautiful 
lake  there ;  and  he  unenviously  settled  down  to  ad- 
mire the  landlord's  thrift,  and  to  act  as  guide  and  cook 
for  parties  of  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  started 
from  the  hotel  to  camp  in  the  woods.  This  brought 
him  into  the  society  of  cultivated  people,  for  which 
he  had  a  real  passion.  He  had  always  had  a  few 
thoughts  rattling  round  in  his  skull,  and  he  liked  to 
make  sure  of  them  in  talk  with  those  who  had  en- 
joyed greater  advantages  than  himself.  He  never 
begrudged  them  their  luck ;  he  simply  and  sweetly 
admired  them ;  he  made  studies  of  their  several  char- 
acters, and  was  never  tired  of  analyzing  them  to  their 
advantage  to  the  next  summer's  parties.  Late  in  the 
fall,  he  went  in,  as  it  is  called,  with  a  camp  of  loggers, 
among  whom  he  rarely  failed  to  find  some  remarkable 
men.  But  he  confessed  that  he  did  not  enjoy  the 
steady  three  or  four  months  in  the  winter  woods  with 
no  coming  out  at  all  till  spring;  and  he  had  been 
glad  of  this  chance  in  a  logging  camp  near  Equity,  in 
which  he  had  been  offered  the  cook's  place  by  the 
owner  who  had  tested  his  fare  in  the  Northern  woods 
the  summer  before.  Its  proximity  to  the  village  al- 
lowed him  to  loaf  in  upon  civilization  at  least  once  a 
week,  and  he  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time  at 
the  Free  Press  office  on  publication  day.  He  had 
always  sought  the  society  of  newspaper  men,  and, 


116  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

wherever  he  could,  he  had  given  them  his.  He  was 
not  long  in  discovering  that  Bartley  was  smart  as  a 
steel  trap;  and  by  an  early  and  natural  transitior 
from  calling  the  young  lady  compositors  by  their  pet 
names,  and  patting  them  on  their  shoulders,  he  had 
arrived  at  a  like  affectionate  intimacy  with  Bartley. 

As  they  worked  deep  into  the  woods  on  their  way 
to  the  camp,  the  road  dwindled  to  a  well-worn  track 
between  the  stumps  and  bushes.  The  ground  was 
rough,  and  they  constantly  plunged  down  the  slopes 
of  little  hills,  and  climbed  the  sides  of  the  little  val- 
leys, and  from  time  to  time  they  had  to  turn  out  for 
teams  drawing  logs  to  the  mills  in  Equity,  each  with 
its  equipage  of  four  or  five  wild  young  fellows,  who 
saluted  Kinney  with  an  ironical  cheer  or  jovial  taunt 
in  passing. 

"  They  're  all  just  so,"  he  explained,  with  pride, 
when  the  last  party  had  passed.  "  They  're  gentle- 
men, every  one  of  'em,  —  perfect  gentlemen." 

They  came  at  last  to  a  wider  clearing  than  any  they 
had  yet  passed  through,  and  here  on  a  level  of  the 
hillside  stretched  the  camp,  a  long,  low  structure  of 
logs,  with  the  roof  broken  at  one  point  by  a  stove- 
pipe, and  the  walls  irregularly  pierced  by  small  win- 
dows ;  around  it  crouched  and  burrowed  in  the  drift 
the  sheds  that  served  as  stables  and  storehouses. 

The  sun  shone,  and  shone  with  dazzling  brightness, 
upon  the  opening ;  the  sound  of  distant  shouts  and 
the  rhythmical  stroke  of  axes  came  to  it  out  of 
the  forest;  but  the  camp  was  deserted,  and  in  the 
stillness  Kinney's  voice  seemed  strange  and  alien. 
"  Walk  in,  walk  in  !"  he  said,  hospitably.  "  I  've  got 
to  look  after  my  horse." 

But  Bartley  remained  at  the  door,  blinking  in  the 
sunshine,  and  harking  to  the  near  silence  that  sang  in 
his  ears.  A  curious  feeling  possessed  him ;  sickness 
of  himself  as  of  some  one  else  ;  a  longing,  consciously 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  117 

helpless,  to  be  something  different ;  a  sense  of  captiv- 
ity to  habits  and  thoughts  and  hopes  that  centred  in 
himself,  and  served  him  alone. 

"  Terribly  peaceful  around  here,"  said  Kinney,  com 
ing  back  to  him,  and  joining  him  in  a  survey  of  the 
landscape,  with  his  hands  on  his  hips,  and  a  stem  of 
timothy  projecting  from  his  lips. 

"  Yes,  terribly,"  assented  Bartley. 

"  But  it  aint  a  bad  way  for  a  man  to  live,  as  long 
as  he 's  young  ;  or  haint  got  anybody  that  wants  his 
company  more  than  his  room.  —  Be  the  place  for 
you." 

"  On  which  ground  ? "  Bartley  asked,  drily,  without 
taking  his  eyes  from  a  distant  peak  that  showed 
through  the  notch  in  the  forest. 

Kinney  laughed  in  as  unselfish  enjoyment  as  if  he 
had  made  the  turn  himself.  "  Well,  that  aint  exactly 
what  I  meant  to  say :  what  I  meant  was  that  any 
man  engaged  in  intellectual  pursuits  wants  to  come 
out  and  commune  with  nature,  every  little  while." 

"  You  call  the  Equity  Free  Press  intellectual  pur- 
suits ? "  demanded  Bartley,  with  scorn.  "  I  suppose 
it  is,"  he  added.  "  Well,  here  I  am,  —  right  on  the 
commune.  But  nature 's  such  a  big  thing,  I  think  it 
takes  two  to  commune  with  her." 

"  Well,  a  girl 's  a  help,"  assented  Kinney. 

"  I  was  n't  thinking  of  a  girl,  exactly,"  said  Bartley, 
with  a  little  sadness.  "  I  mean  that,  if  you  're  not  in 
first-rate  spiritual  condition,  you  're  apt  to  get  floored 
if  you  undertake  to  commune  with  nature." 

"  I  guess  that 's  about  so.  If  a  man 's  got  anything 
on  his  mind,  a  big  railroad  depot 's  the  place  for  Mm. 
But  you  're  run  down.  You  ought  to  come  out  here, 
and  take  a  hand,  and  be  a  man  amongst  men."  Kin- 
ney talked  partly  for  quantity,  and  partly  for  pure, 
indefinite  good  feeling. 

Bartley  turned  toward  the  door.  "  What  have  you 
got  inside,  here  ? " 


118  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

Kinney  flung  the  door  open,  and  followed  his 
guest  within.  The  first  two-thirds  of  the  cabin  was 
used  as  a  dormitory,  and  the  sides  were  furnished 
with  rough  bunks,  from  the  ground  to  the  roof.  The 
round,  unhewn  logs  showed  their  form  everywhere ; 
the  crevices  were  calked  with  moss;  and  the  walls 
were  warm  and  tight.  It  was  dark  between  the 
bunks,  but  beyond  it  was  lighter,  and  Bartley  could 
see  at  the  farther  end  a  vast  cooking-stove,  and  three 
long  tables  with  benches  at  their  sides.  A  huge 
coffee-pot  stood  on  the  top  of  the  stove,  and  various 
pots  and  kettles  surrounded  it. 

"  Come  into  the  dining-room  and  sit  down  in  the 
parlor,"  said  Kinney,  drawing  off  his  coat  as  he 
walked  forward.  "  Take  the  sofa,"  he  added,  indicat- 
ing a  movable  bench.  He  hung  his  coat  on  a  peg 
and  rolled  up  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  began  to  whistle 
cheerily,  like  a  man  who  enjoys  his  work,  as  he  threw 
open  the  stove  door  and  poked  in  some  sticks  of 
fuel.  A  brooding  warmth  filled  the  place,  and  the 
wood  made  a  pleasant  crackling  as  it  took  fire. 

" Here's  my  desk,"  said  Kinney,  pointing  to  a 
barrel  that  supported  a  broad,  smooth  board- top. 
"  This  is  where  I  compose  my  favorite  works."  He 
turned  round,  and  cut  out  of  a  mighty  mass  of  dough 
in  a  tin  trough  a  portion,  which  he  threw  down  on 
his  table  and  attacked  with  a  rolling-pin.  "  That 
means  pie,  Mr.  Hubbard,"  he  explained,  "  and  pie 
means  meat-pie,  —  or  squash-pie,  at  a  pinch.  To- 
day 's  pie-baking  day.  But  you  need  n't  be  troubled 
on  that  account.  So  's  to-morrow,  and  so  was  yester- 
day. Pie  twenty-one  times  a  week  is  the  word,  and 
don't  you  forget  it.  They  say  old  Agassiz,"  Kinney 
went  on,  in  that  easy,  familiar  fondness  with  which 
our  people  like  to  speak  of  greatness  that  impresses 
their  imagination,  —  "  they  say  old  Agassiz  recom- 
mended fish  as  the  best  food  for  the  brain.  Well,  I 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  119 

don't  suppose  but  what  it  is.  But  I  don't  know  but 
what  pie  is  more  stimulating  to  the  fancy.  I  never 
saw  anything  like  meat-pie  to  make  ye  dream." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bartley,  nodding  gloomily,  "  I  've 
tried  it." 

Kinney  laughed.  "Well,  I  guess  folks  of  seden- 
tary pursuits,  like  you  and  me,  don't  need  it ;  but 
these  fellows  that  stamp  round  in  the  snow  all  day, 
they  want  something  to  keep  their  imagination  goin'. 
And  I  guess  pie  does  it.  Anyway,  they  can't  seem 
to  get  enough  of  it.  Ever  tiy  apples  when  you  was 
at  work  ?  They  say  old  Greeley  kep'  his  desk  full 
of  'em ;  kep'  munchin'  away  all  the  while  when  he 
was  writin'  his  editorials.  And  one  of  them  German 
poets  —  I  don't  know  but  what  it  was  old  Gutty 
himself — kept  rotten  ones  in  his  drawer;  liked  the 
vmell  of  'em.  Well,  there  's  a  good  deal  of  apple  in 
meat-pie.  May  be  it's  the  apple  that  does  it.  1 
don't  know.  But  I  guess  if  your  pursuits  are  seden- 
tary, you  better  take  the  apple  separate." 

Bartley  did  not  say  anything  ;  but  he  kept  a  lazily 
interested  eye  on  Kinney  as  he  rolled  out  his  pie- 
crust, fitted  it  into  his  tins,  filled  these  from  a  jar  of 
mince-meat,  covered  them  with  a  sheet  of  dough 
\  ierced  in  herring-bone  pattern,  and  marshalled  them 
at  one  side  ready  for  the  oven. 

"  If  fish  is  any  better  for  the  brain,"  Kinney  pro- 
ceeded, "  they  can't  complain  of  any  want  of  it,  at 
least  in  the  salted  form.  They  get  fish-balls  three 
times  a  week  for  breakfast,  as  reg'lar  as  Sunday, 
Tuesday,  and  Thursday  comes  round.  And  Fridays 
I  make  up  a  sort  of  chowder  for  the  Kanucks  ;  they  're 
Catholics,  you  know,  and  I  don't  believe  in  inter- 
ferin'  with  any  man's  religion,  it  don't  matter  what 
it  is." 

"You  ought  to  be  a  deacon  in  the  First  Church 
at  Equity,"  said  Bartley 


120  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  Is  that  so  ?    Why  ? "  asked  Kinney. 

"Oh,  they  don't  believe  in  interfering  with  any 
man's  religion,  either." 

"  Well,"  said  Kinney,  thoughtfully,  pausing  with 
the  rolling-pin  in  his  hand,  "  there  's  such  a  thing  as 
being  too  liberal,  I  suppose." 

"  The  world  's  tried  the  other  thing  a  good  while," 
said  Bartley,  with  cynical  amusement  at  Kinney's 
arrest. 

It  seemed  to  chill  the  flow  of  the  good  fellow's 
optimism,  so  that  he  assented  with  but  lukewarm 
satisfaction. 

"  Well,  that 's  so,  too,"  and  he  made  up  the  rest 
of  his  pies  in  silence. 

"  Well,"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  as  if  shaking  him- 
self out  of  an  unpleasant  reverie,  "  I  guess  we  shall 
get  along,  somehow.  Do  you  like  pork  and  beans  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Bartley. 

"  We  're  goin'  to  have  'em  for  dinner.  You  can 
hit  beans  any  meal  you  drop  in  on  us ;  beans  twenty- 
one  times  a  week,  just  like  pie.  Set  'em  in  to 
warm,"  he  said,  taking  up  a  capacious  earthen  pot, 
near  the  stove,  and  putting  it  into  the  oven.  "I 
been  pretty  much  everywheres,  and  I  don't  know 
as  I  found  anything  for  a  stand-by  that  come  up 
to  beans.  I  'm  goin'  to  give  'em  potatoes  and 
cabbage  to-day,  —  kind  of  a  boiled-dinner  day, — 
but  you  '11  see  there  aint  one  in  ten  11  touch  'em  to 
what  there  will  these  old  residenters.  Potatoes  and 
cabbage  11  do  for  a  kind  of  a  delicacy,  —  sort  of  a 
side-dish,  —  ou-tree,  you  know ;  but  give  'em  beans 
for  a  steady  diet.  Why,  off  there  in  Chili,  even, 
the  people  'regularly  live  on  beans,  —  not  exactly 
like  ours,  —  broad  and  flat,  —  but  they  're  beans. 
Wa'n't  there  some  those  ancients  —  old  Horace,  or 
Virgil,  may  be  —  rung  in  something  about  beans 
in  some  their  poems  ? " 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  121 

"  I  don't  remember  anything  of  the  kind,"  said 
Hartley,  languidly. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  /  can.  I  just  have  a  dim 
recollection  of  language  thrown  out  at  the  object,  — 
as  old  Matthew  Arnold  says.  But  it  might  have 
been  something  in  Emerson." 

Bartley  laughed  "  I  did  n't  suppose  you  were  such 
a  reader,  Kinney." 

"  Oh,  I  nibble  round  wherever  I  can  get  a 
chance.  Mostly  in  the  newspapers,  you  know.  I 
don't  get  any  time  for  books,  as  a  general  rule. 
But  there  's  pretty  much  everything  in  the  papers. 
I  should  call  beans  a  brain  food." 

"  I  guess  you  call  anything  a  brain  food  that  you 
happen  to  like,  don't  you,  Kinney?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Kinney,  soberly ;  "  but  I  like  to 
see  the  philosophy  of  a  thing  when  I  get  a  chance. 
Now,  there  's  tea,  for  example,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
the  great  tin  pot  on  the  stove. 

"  Coffee,  you  mean,"  said  Bartley. 

"  No,  sir,  I  mean  tea.  That 's  tea ;  and  I  give  it 
to  'em  three  times  a  day,  good  and  strong,  —  molas- 
ses in  it,  and  no  milk.  That 's  a  brain  food,  if  ever 
there  was  one.  Sets  'em  up,  right  on  end,  every 
time.  Clears  their  heads  and  keeps  the  cold  out." 

"  I  should  think  you  were  running  a  seminary  for 
young  ladies,  instead  of  a  logging-camp,"  said  Bart- 
ley. ' 

"  No,  but  look  at  it :  I  'm  in  earnest  about  tea. 
You  look  at  the  tea  drinkers  and  the  coffee-drinkers 
all  the  world  over !  Look  at  'em  in  our  own  country  ! 
All  the  Northern  people  and  all  the  go-ahead  people 
drink  tea.  The  Pennsylvanians  and  the  Southerners 
drink  coffee.  Why,  our  New  England  folks  don't 
even  know  how  to  make  coffee  so  it 's  fit  to  drink  I 
And  it's  just  so  all  over  Europe.  The  Russians  drink 
tea,  and  they  'd  e't  up  those  coffee-drmkin'  Turks 


122  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

long  ago,  if  the  tea-drinkin'  English  had  n't  kept  'em 
from  it.  Go  anywheres  you  like  in  the  North,  and  you 
find  'em  drinkin'  tea.  The  Swedes  and  Norwegians 
in  Aroostook  County  drink  it ;  and  they  drink  it  at 
home." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  French  and  Ger- 
mans ?  They  drink  coffee,  and  they  're  pretty  smart, 
active  people,  too." 

"  French  and  Germans  drink  coffee  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Kinney  stopped  short  in  his  heated  career  of  gen- 
eralization, and  scratched  his  shaggy  head.  K  Well." 
he  said,  finally,  "  I  guess  they  're  a  kind  of  a  missing 
link,  as  old  Darwin  says."  He  joined  Bartley  in  his 
laugh  cordially,  and  looked  up  at  the  round  clock 
nailed  to  a  log.  "  It 's  about  time  I  set  my  tables, 
anyway.  Well,"  he  asked,  apparently  to  keep  the 
conversation  from  flagging,  while  he  went  about  this 
work,  "how  is  the  good  old  Free  Press  getting 
along?" 

"  It 's  going  to  get  along  without  me  from  this 
out,"  said  Bartley.  "This  is  my  last  week  ID 
Equity." 

"  No ! "  retorted  Kinney,  in  tremendous  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Yes ;  I  'm  off  at  the  end  of  the  week.  Squire 
Gaylord  takes  the  paper  back  for  the  committee,  and 
I  suppose  Henry  Bird  will  run  it  for  a  while ;  or  per- 
haps they'll  stop  it  altogether.  It's  been  a  losing 
business  for  the  committee." 

"Why,  I  thought  you  'd  bought  it  of  'em." 

"  Well,  that 's  what  I  expected  to  do ;  but  the  office 
has  n't  made  any  money.  All  that  I  've  saved  is  in 
my  colt  and  cutter." 

"  That  sorrel  ?  " 

Bartley  nodded.  "  I  'm  going  away  about  as  poor 
as  I  came.  I  could  n't  go  much  poorer." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  123 

"  Well !"  said  Kinney,  in  the  exhaustion  of  adequate 
language.  He  went  on  laying  the  plates  and  knives 
and  forks  in  silence.  These  were  of  undisguised  steel ; 
the  dishes  and  the  drinking  mugs  were  of  that  dense 
and  heavy  make  which  the  keepers  of  cheap  restaurants 
use  to  protect  themselves  against  breakage,  and  which 
their  servants  chip  to  the  quick  at  every  edge.  Kinney 
laid  bread  and  crackers  by  each  plate,  and  on  each  he 
placed  a  vast  slab  of  cold  corned  beef.  Then  he  lifted 
the  lid  of  the  pot  in  which  the  cabbage  and  potatoes 
were  boiling  together,  and  pricked  them  with  a  fork. 
He  dished  up  the  beans  in  a  succession  of  deep  tins, 
and  set  them  at  intervals  along  the  tables,  and  began 
to  talk  again.  "  Well,  now,  I  'm  sorry.  I  'd  just 
begun  to  feel  real  well  acquainted  with  you.  Tell 
you  the  truth,  I  did  n't  take  much  of  a  fancy  to  you, 
first  off." 

"  Is  that  so  ? "  asked  Bartley,  not  much  disturbed 
by  the  confession. 

"  Yes,  sir.  Well,  come  to  boil  it  down,"  said  Kinne)7-, 
with  the  frankness  of  the  analytical  mind  that  dis- 
dains to  spare  itself  in  the  pursuit  of  truth,  "  I  did  n't 
like  your  good  clothes.  I  don't  suppose  I  ever  had  a 
suit  of  clothes  to  fit  me.  Feel  kind  of  ashamed,  you 
know,  when  I  go  into  the  store,  and  take  the  first 
thing  the  Jew  wants  to  put  off  on  to  me.  Now,  I 
suppose  you  go  to  Macullar  and  Parker's  in  Boston, 
and  you  get  what  you  want." 

"  No ;  I  have  my  measure  at  a  tailor's,"  said  Bart- 
ley,  with  ill-concealed  pride  in  the  fact. 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  "  exclaimed  Kinney.  "  Well ! " 
he  said,  as  if  he  might  as  well  swallow  this  pill,  too, 
while  he  was  about  it.  "  Well,  what 's  the  use  ?  I 
never  was  the  figure  for  clothes,  anyway.  Long 
gangling  boy  to  start  with,  and  a  lean,  stoop-shoul- 
dered man.  I  found  out  some  time  ago  that  a  fellow 
.."wa'n't  necessarily  a  bad  fellow  because  he  had  money , 


124  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

or  a  good  fellow  because  he  had  n't.  But  I  had  n't 
quite  got  over  hating  a  man  because  he  had  style. 
Well,  I  suppose  it  was  a  kind  of  a  survival,  as  old 
Tylor  calls  it.  But  I  tell  you,  I  sniffed  round  you  a 
good  while  before  I  made  up  my  mind  to  swallow 
you.  And  that  turnout  of  yours,  it  kind  of  staggered 
me,  after  I  got  over  the  clothes.  Why,  it  wa'n't  so 
much  the  colt,  —  any  man  likes  to  ride  after  a  sorrel 
colt ;  and  it  wa'n't  so  much  the  cutter :  it  was  the  red 
linin'  with  pinked  edges  that  you  had  to  your  robe ; 
and  it  was  the  red  ribbon  that  you  had  tied  round  the 
waist  of  your  whip.  When  I  see  that  ribbon  on  that 
whip,  dumn  you,  I  wanted  to  kill  you."  Bartley 
broke  out  into  a  laugh,  but  Kinney  went  on  soberly. 
"  But,  thinks  I  to  myself :  '  Here  !  Now  you  stop 
right  here  !  You  wait !  You  give  the  fellow  a  chance 
for  his  life.  Let  him  have  a  chance  to  show  whether 
that  whip-ribbon  goes  all  through  him,  first.  If  it 
does,  kill  him  cheerfully  ;  but  give  him  a  chance  first? 
Well,  sir,  I  gave  you  the  chance,  and  you  showed  that 
you  deserved  it.  I  guess  you  taught  me  a  lesson. 
When  I  see  you  at  work,  pegging  away  hard  at  some- 
thing or  other,  every  time  I  went  into  your  office,  up 
and  coming  with  everybody,  and  just  as  ready  to  pass 
the  time  of  day  with  me  as  the  biggest  bug  in  town, 
thinks  I :  '  You  'd  have  made  a  great  mistake  to  kill 
that  fellow,  Kinney  !'  And  I  just  made  up  my  mind 
to  like  you/' 

"  Thanks,"  said  Bartley,  with  ironical  gratitude. 

Kinney  did  not  speak  at  once.  He  whistled  thought- 
fully through  his  teeth,  and  then  he  said :  "  I  11  tell 
you  what :  if  you  're  going  away  very  poor,  I  know  a 
wealthy  chap  you  can  raise  a  loan  out  of." 

Bartley  thought  seriously  for  a  silent  moment.  "  If 
your  friend  offers  me  twenty  dollars,  I  'in  not  too  well 
dressed  to  take  it." 


A.  MODERN  INSTANCE.  J25 

"  All  right,"  said  Kinney.  He  now  dished  up  the 
cabbage  and  potatoes,  and  throwing  a  fresh  handful 
of  tea  into  the  pot,  and  filling  it  up  with  water,  he 
took  down  a  tin  horn,  with  which  he  went  to  the  door 
and  sounded  a  long,  stertorous  note. 


126  A  MODERN  INSTANCE 


"  GUESS  it  was  the  clothes  again,"  said  Kinney,  as 
he  began  to  wash  his  tins  and  dishes  after  the  dinner 
was  over,  and  the  men  had  gone  back  to  their  work. 
"  I  could  see  'em  eyin'  you  over  when  they  first  came 
in,  and  I  could  see  that  they  did  n't  exactly  like  the 
looks  of  'em.  It  would  wear  off  in  time,  but  it  takes 
time  for  it  to  wear  off ;  and  it  had  to  go  pretty  rusty 
for  a  start-off.  Well,  I  don't  know  as  it  makes  much 
difference  to  you,  does  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  thought  we  got  along  very  well,"  said  Bart- 
ley,  with  a  careless  yawn.  "  There  was  n't  much 
chance  to  get  acquainted."  Some  of  the  loggers  were 
as  handsome  and  well-made  as  he,  and  were  of  as  good 
origin  and  traditions,  though  he  had  some  advantages 
of  training.  But  his  two-button  cutaway,  his  well- 
fitting  trousers,  his  scarf  with  a  pin  in  it,  had  been  too 
much  for  these  young  fellows  in  their  long  'stoga 
boots  and  flannel  shirts.  They  looked  at  him  askance, 
and  despatched  their  meal  with  more  than  their 
wonted  swiftness,  and  were  off  again  into  the  woods 
without  any  demonstrations  of  satisfaction  in  Bartley's 
presence. 

He  had  perceived  their  grudge,  for  he  had  felt  it  in 
his  time.  But  it  did  not  displease  him ;  he  had  none 
of  the  pain  with  which  Kinney,  who  had  so  long 
bragged  of  him  to  the  loggers,  saw  that  his  guest  was 
a  failure. 

"  I  guess  they  '11  come  out  all  right  in  the  end,"  he 
said.  In  this  warm  atmosphere,  after  the  gross  and 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  127 

heavy  dinner  he  had  eaten,  he  yawned  again  and 
again.  He  folded  his  overcoat  into  a  pillow  for  his 
bench  and  lay  down,  and  lazily  watched  Kinney 
about  his  work.  Presently  he  saw  Kinney  seated  on 
a  block  of  wood  beside  the  stove,  with  his  elbow 
propped  in  one  hand,  and  holding  a  magazine,  out  of 
which  he  was  reading;  he  wore  spectacles,  which 
'gave  him  a  fresh  and  interesting  touch  of  grotesque- 
ness.  Bartley  found  that  an  empty  barrel  had  been 
placed  on  each  side  of  him,  evidently  to  keep  him 
from  rolling  off  his  bench. 

"  Hello  ! "  he  said.  "  Much  obliged  to  you,  Kinney. 
I  have  n't  been  taken  such  good  care  of  since  I  can 
remember.  Been  asleep,  have  n't  I  ? " 

"About  an  hour,"  said  Kinney,  with  a  glance  at 
the  clock,  and  ignoring  his  agency  in  Bartley's  com- 
fort. 

"  Food  for  the  brain ! "  said  Bartley,  sitting  up.  "  I 
should  think  so.  I  've  dreamt  a  perfect  New  Ameri- 
can Cyclopaedia,  and  a  pronouncing  gazetteer  thrown 
in." 

"  Is  that  so  ? "  said  Kinney,  as  if  pleased  with  the 
suggestive  character  of  his  cookery,  now  established 
by  eminent  experiment. 

Bartley  yawned  a  yawn  of  satisfied  sleepiness,  and 
rubbed  his  hand  over  his  face.  "  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
"  if  I  'm  going  to  write  anything  about  Camp  Kinney, 
I  had  better  see  all  there  is  to  see." 

"Well,  yes,  I  presume  you  had,"  said  Kinney. 
"  We  Ti  go  over  to  where  they  're  cuttin',  pretty  soon, 
and  you  can  see  all  there  is  in  an  hour.  But  I  pre- 
sume you  11  want  to  see  it  so  as  to  ring  in  some  de- 
scription, hey  ?  Well,  that 's  all  right.  But  what 
you  going  to  do  with  it,  when  you  Ve  done  it,  now 
you  're  out  of  the  Free  Press  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  should  n't  have  printed  it  in  the  Free  Press, 
anyway.  Coals  to  Newcastle,  you  know.  I  '11  tell 


128  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

you  what  I  think  I  'II  do,  Kinney :  I  'II  get  my  out 
lines,  and  then  you  post  me  with  a  lot  of  facts,— 
queer  characters,  accidents,  romantic  incidents,  snow, 
ings-up,  threatened  starvation,  adventures  with  wild 
animals,  —  and  I  can  make  something  worth  while ; 
get  out  two  or  three  columns,  so  they  can  print 
it  in  their  Sunday  edition.  And  then  I'll  take  it 
up  to  Boston  with  me,  and  seek  my  fortune  with 
it." 

"Well,  sir,  I'll  do  it,"  said  Kinney,  fired  with  the 
poetry  of  the  idea.  "  I  '11  post  you !  Dumn  'f  I  don't 
wish  /  could  write !  Well,  I  did  use  to  scribble  once 
for  an  agricultural  paper ;  but  I  don't  call  that  writin'. 
I  've  set  down,  well,  I  guess  as  much  as  sixty  times, 
to  try  to  write  out  what  I  know  about  loggin'  —  " 

"  Hold  on  ! "  cried  Bartley,  whipping  out  his  note- 
book. "That's  first-rate.  That'll  do  for  the  first 
line  in  the  head, —  What  I  Know  About  Logging t — 
large  caps.  Well ! " 

Kinney  shut  his  magazine,  and  took  his  knee  be- 
tween his  hands,  closing  one  of  his  eyes  in  order  to 
sharpen  his  recollection.  He  poured  forth  a  stream 
of  reminiscence,  mingled  observation,  and  personal 
experience.  Bartley  followed  him  with  his  pencil, 
jotting  down  points,  striking  in  sub-head  lines,  and 
now  and  then  interrupting  him  with  cries  of  "  Good  !" 
"  Capital ! "  "  It 's  a  perfect  mine, —  it 's  a  mint !  By 
Jove  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  1 11  make  six  columns  of  this  ! 
I  '11  offer  it  to  one  of  the  magazines,  and  it  '11  come 
out  illustrated !  Go  on,  Kinney." 

"  Hark ! "  said  Kinney,  craning  his  neck  forward  to 
listen.  "  I  thought  I  heard  sleigh-bells.  But  I  guess 
it  wa'n't.  Well,  sir,  as  I  was  sayin',  they  fetched  that 
fellow  into  camp  with  both  feet  frozen  to  the  knees  — 
Dumn  'f  it  wasn't  bells  ! " 

He  unlimbered  himself,  and  hurried  to  the  door  at 
the  other  end  of  the  cabin,  which  he  opened,  letting 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  129 

In  a  clear  block  of  the  afternoon  sunshine,  and  a  gush 
of  sleigh-bell  music,  shot  with  men's  voices,  and  the 
cries  and  laughter  of  women. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Kinney,  coining  back  and  making 
haste  to  roll  down  his  sleeves  and  put  on  his  coat. 
"  Here  's  a  nuisance  !  A  whole  party  of  folks  —  two 
sleigh-loads  —  right  on  us.  I  don't  know  who  they 
be,  or  where  they  're  from.  But  I  know  where  I  wish 
they  was.  Well,  of  course,  it 's  natural  they  should 
want  to  see  a  loggin'-camp,"  added  Kinney,  taking 
himself  to  task  for  his  inhospitable  mind,  "  and  there 
ain't  any  harm  in  it.  But  I  wish  they  'd  give  a  fellow 
a  little  notice  !  " 

The  voices  and  bells  drew  nearer,  but  Kinney 
seemed  resolved  to  observe  the  decorum  of  not  going 
to  the  door  till  some  one  knocked. 

"  Kinney  !  Kinney !  Hello,  Kinney  ! "  shouted  a 
man's  voice,  as  the  bells  hushed  before  the  door,  and 
broke  into  a  musical  clash  when  one  of  the  horses 
tossed  his  head. 

"  Well,  sir,'  said  Kinney,  rising,  "  I  guess  it 's  old 
Willett  himself.  He 's  the  owner ;  lives  up  to  Port- 
land, and  been  threatening  to  come  down  here  all 
winter,  with  a  party  of  friends.  You  just  stay  still," 
he  added ;  and  he  paid  himself  the  deference  which 
every  true  American  owes  himself  in  his  dealings 
with  his  employer :  he  went  to  the  door  very  deliber- 
ately, and  made  no  haste  on  account  of  the  repeated 
cries  of  "  Kinney  !  Kinney  ! "  in  which  others  of  the 
party  outside  now  joined. 

When  he  opened  the  door  again,  the  first  voice  sa- 
luted him  with  a  roar  of  laughter.  "  Why,  Kinney, 
I  began  to  think  you  were  dead  ! " 

"No,  sir,"  Bartley  heard  Kinney  reply,  "it  takes 
more  to  kill  me  than  you  suppose."  But  now  he 
stepped  outside,  and  the  talk  became  unintelligible. 

Finally  Bartley  heard  what  was  imaginably  Mr. 
I 


130  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

Willett's  voice  saying,  "  Well,  let 's  go  in  and  have  a 
look  at  it  now  "  ;  and  with  much  outcry  and  laughter 
the  ladies  were  invisibly  helped  to  dismount,  and 
presently  the  whole  party  came  stamping  and  rus- 
tling in. 

Bartley's  blood  tingled.  He  liked  this,  and  he 
stood  quite  self-possessed,  with  his  thumbs  in  his 
waistcoat  pockets  and  his  elbows  dropped,  while  Mr. 
Willett  advanced  in  a  friendly  way. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Hubbard !  Kinney  told  us  you  were  in 
here,  and  asked  me  to  introduce  myself  while  he 
looked  after  the  horses.  My  name  's  Willett.  These 
are  my  daughters ;  this  is  Mrs.  Macallister,  of  Mont- 
real ;  Mrs.  Witherby,  of  Boston ;  Miss  Witherby,  and 
Mr.  Witherby.  You  ought  to  know  each  other ;  Mr. 
Hubbard  is  the  editor  of  the  Equity  Free  Press . 
Mr.  Witherby,  of  The  Boston  Events,  Mr.  Hubbard. 
Oh,  and  Mr.  Macallister." 

Bartley  bowed  to  the  Willett  and  Witherby  ladies, 
and  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Witherby,  a  large,  solemn 
man,  with  a  purse-mouth  and  tight  rings  of  white 
hair,  who  treated  him  with  the  pomp  inevitable  to 
the  owner  of  a  city  newspaper  in  meeting  a  country 
editor. 

At  the  mention  of  his  name,  Mr.  Macallister,  a 
slight  little  straight  man,  in  a  long  ulster  and  a  seal- 
skin cap,  tiddled  farcically  forward  on  his  toes,  and, 
giving  Bartley  his  hand,  said,  "  Ah,  haow  d'e-do,  haow 
d'e-do!" 

Mrs.  Macallister  fixed  upon  him  the  eye  of  the  flirt 
who  knows  her  man.  She  was  of  the  dark-eyed  Eng- 
lish type ;  her  eyes  were  very  large  and  full,  and  her 
smooth  black  hair  was  drawn  flatly  backward,  and 
fastened  in  a  knot  just  under  her  dashing  fur  cap. 
She  wore  a  fur  sack,  and  she  was  equipped  against  the 
cold  as  exquisitely  as  her  Southern  sisters  defend 
themselves  from  the  summer.  Bits  of  warm  color,  in 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  131 

ribbon  and  scarf,  flashed  out  here  and  there ;  when 
she  flung  open  her  sack,  she  showed  herself  much 
more  lavishly  buttoned  and  bugled  and  bangled  than 
the  Americans.  She  sat  down  on  the  movable  bench 
which  Bartley  had  vacated,  and  crossed  her  feet,  very 
small  and  saucy,  even  in  their  arctics,  on  a  stick  of 
fire-wood,  and  cast  up  her  neat  profile,  and  rapidly 
made  eyes  at  every  part  of  the  interior.  "  Why,  it 's 
delicious,  you  know.  I  never  saw  anything  so  com- 
fortable. I  want  to  spend  the  rest  of  me  life  here,  you 
know."  She  spoke  very  far  down  in  her  throat,  and 
with  a  rising  inflection  in  each  sentence.  "  I  'm  go- 
ing to  have  a  quarrel  with  you,  Mr.  Willett,  for  not 
telling  me  what  a  delightful  surprise  you  had  for  us 
here.  Oh,  but  I  'd  no  idea  of  it,  I  assure  you  ! " 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  like  it,  Mrs.  Macallister," 
said  Mr.  Willett,  with  the  clumsiness  of  American 
middle-age  when  summoned  to  say  something  gallant 
"  If  I  'd  told  you  what  a  surprise  I  had  for  you,  it 
would  n't  have  been  one." 

"  Oh,  it 's  no  good  your  trying  to  get  out  of  it  that 
way,"  retorted  the  beauty.  "  There  he  comes  now ! 
I  'in  really  in  love  with  him,  you  know,"  she  said,  as 
Kinney  opened  the  door  and  came  hulking  forward. 

Nobody  said  anything  at  once,  but  Bartley  laughed 
finally,  and  ventured,  "  Well,  I  '11  propose  for  you  to 
Kinney." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say ! "  cried  the  beauty,  with  a  lively 
effort  of  wit.  "Mr.  Kinney,  I  have  fallen  in  love 
with  your  camp,  d'  ye  know  ? "  she  added,  as  Kinney 
drew  near,  "and  I  'm  beggin'  Mr.  Willett  to  let  me 
come  and  live  here  among  you." 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  said  Kinney,  a  little  abashed  at 
this  proposition,  "  you  could  n't  do  a  better  thing  for 
your  health,  I  guess." 

The  proprietor  of  The  Boston  Events  turned 
about,  and  began  to  look  over  the  arrangements  of  the 


132  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

interior ;  the  other  ladies  went  with  him,  conversing 
in  low  tones.  "  These  must  be  the  places  where  the 
men  sleep,"  they  said,  gazing  at  the  bunks. 

"We  must  get  Kinney  to  explain  things  to  us," 
said  Mr.  Willett  a  little  restlessly. 

Mrs.  Macallister  jumped  briskly  to  her  feet.  "  Oh, 
yes,  do,  Mr.  Willett,  make  him  explain  everything  1 
I  've  been  tryin'  to  coax  it  out  of  him,  but  he 's  such 
a  tease ! " 

Kinney  looked  very  sheepish  in  this  character,  and 
Mrs.  Macallister  hooked  Bartley  to  her  side  for  the 
tour  of  the  interior.  "  I  can't  let  you  away  from  me, 
Mr.  Hubbard;  your  friend's  so  satirical,  I'm  afraid 
of  him.  Only  fancy,  Mr.  Willett !  He 's  been  talkin' 
to  me  about  brain  foods  !  I  know  he  's  makin'  fun  of 
me ;  and  it  is  n't  kind,  is  it,  Mr.  Hubbard  ?  " 

She  did  not  give  the  least  notice  to  the  things  that 
the  others  looked  at,  or  to  Kinney's  modest  lecture 
upon  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  loggers.  She 
kept  a  little  apart  with  Bartley,  and  plied  him  with 
bravadoes,  with  pouts,  with  little  cries  of  suspense. 
In  the  midst  of  this  he  heard  Mr.  Willett  saying, 
"  You  ought  to  get  some  one  to  come  and  write  about 
this  for  your  paper,  Witherby."  But  Mrs.  Macallister 
was  also  saying  something,  with  a  significant  turn 
of  her  floating  eyes,  and  the  thing  that  concerned 
Bartley,  if  he  were  to  make  his  way  among  the  news- 
papers in  Boston,  slipped  from  his  grasp  like  the 
idea  which  we  try  to  seize  in  a  dream.  She  made 
sure  of  him  for  the  drive  to  the  place  which  they  vis- 
ited to  see  the  men  felling  the  trees,  by  inviting  him 
to  a  seat  at  her  side  in  the  sleigh ;  this  crowded  the 
others,  but  she  insisted,  and  they  all  gave  way,  as 
people  must,  to  the  caprices  of  a  pretty  woman.  Her 
coquetries  united  British  wilfulness  to  American  non- 
chalance, and  seemed  to  have  been  graduated  to  the 
appreciation  of  garrison  and  St.  Lawrence  Kiver  steam- 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  133 

boat  and  watering-place  society.  The  Willett  ladies 
had  already  found  it  necessary  to  explain  to  the  With- 
Brby  ladies  that  they  had  met  her  the  summer  before 
at  the  sea-side,  and  that  she  had  stopped  at  Portland 
on  her  way  to  England ;  they  did  not  know  her  very; 
well,  but  some  friends  of  theirs  did ;  and  their  father 
had  asked  her  to  come  with  them  to  the  camp.  They 
added  that  the  Canadian  ladies  seemed  to  expect  the 
gentlemen  to  be  a  great  deal  more  attentive  than  ours 
were.  They  had  known  as  little  what  to  do  with  Mr. 
Macallister's  small-talk  and  compliments  as  his  wife's 
audacities,  but  they  did  not  view  Bartley's  responsive- 
ness with  pleasure  If  Mrs.  Macallister's  arts  were 
not  subtle,  as  Bartley  even  in  the  intoxication  of  her 
preference  could  not  keep  from  seeing,  still,  in  his 
mood,  it  was  consoling  to  be  singled  out  by  her ;  it 
meant  that  even  in  a  logging-camp  he  was  recogniza- 
ble by  any  person  of  fashion  as  a  good-looking,  well- 
dressed  man  of  the  world.  It  embittered  him  the 
more  against  Marcia,  while,  in  some  sort,  it  vindicated 
him  to  himself. 

The  early  winter  sunset  was  beginning  to  tinge  the 
snow  with  crimson,  when  the  party  started  back  to 
camp,  where  Kinney  was  to  give  them  supper ;  he 
had  it  greatly  on  his  conscience  that  they  should 
have  a  good  time,  and  he  promoted  it  as  far  as  hot 
mince-pie  and  newly  fried  doughnuts  would  go.  He 
also  opened  a  few  canned  goods,  as  he  called  some 
very  exclusive  sardines  and  peaches,  and  he  made  an 
entirely  fresh  pot  of  tea,  and  a  pan  of  soda-biscuit. 
Mrs.  Macallister  made  remarks  across  her  plate  which 
were  for  Bartley  alone ;  and  Kinney,  who  was  seri- 
ously waiting  upon  his  guests,  refused  to  respond  to 
Bartley's  joking  reference  to  himself  of  some  ques- 
tions and  comments  of  hers. 

After  supper,  when  the  loggers  had  withdrawn  t? 
the  other  end  of  the  long  hut,  she  called  out  to  Kin' 


134  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

ney,  "  Oh,  do  tell  them  to  smoke :  we  shall  not  mind 
it  at  all,  I  assure  you.  Can't  some  of  them  do  some- 
thing ?  Sing  or  dance  ? " 

Kinney  unbent  a  little  at  this.  "  There  's  a  first- 
class  clog-dancer  among  them;  but  he's  a  little 
stuck  up,  and  I  don't  know  as  you  could  get  him  to 
dance,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"  What  a  bloated  aristocrat ! "  cried  the  lady. 
"  Then  the  only  thing  is  for  us  to  dance  first.  Can 
they  play  ? " 

"  One  of  'em  can  whistle  like  a  bird,  —  he  can 
whistle  like  a  whole  band,"  answered  Kinney,  wann- 
ing. "  And  of  course  the  Kanucks  can  fiddle." 

"  And  what  are  Kanucks  ?  Is  that  what  you  call 
us  Canadians  ? " 

"  Well,  ma'am,  it  aint  quite  the  thing  to  do/'  said 
Kinney,  penitently. 

"  It  is  n't  at  all  the  thing  to  do !  Which  are  the 
Kanucks?" 

She  rose,  and  went  forward  with  Kinney,  in  her 
spoiled  way,  and  addressed  a  swarthy,  gleaming-eyed 
young  logger  in  French.  He  answered  with  a  smile 
that  showed  all  his  white  teeth,  and  turned  to  one  of 
his  comrades ;  then  the  two  rose,  and  got  violins  out 
of  the  bunks,  and  came  forward.  Others  of  their  race 
joined  them,  but  the  Yankees  hung  gloomily  back ; 
they  clearly  did  not  like  these  liberties,  this  patron- 
age. 

"  I  shall  have  your  clog-dancer  on  his  feet  yet,  Mr. 
Kinney,"  said  Mrs.  Macallister,  as  she  came  back  to 
her  place. 

The  Canadians  began  to  play  and  sing  those  gay, 
gay  airs  of  old  France  which  they  have  kept  unsad- 
dened  through  all  the  dark  events  that  have  changed 
the  popular  mood  of  the  mother  country  ;  they  have 
matched  words  to  them  in  celebration  of  their  life  on 
the  great  rivers  and  in  the  vast  forests  of  the  North, 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  135 

and  in  these  blithe  barcaroles  and  hunting-songs 
breathes  the  joyous  spirit  of  a  France  that  knows 
neither  doubt  nor  care,  —  France  untouched  by  Kevo- 
lution  or  Napoleonic  wars  ;  some  of  the  airs  still  keep 
the  very  words  that  came  over  seas  with  them  two 
hundred  years  ago.  The  transition  to  the  dance  was 
quick  and  inevitable ;  a  dozen  slim  young  fellows 
were  gliding  about  behind  the  players,  pounding  the 
hard  earthen  floor,  and  singing  in  time. 

"  Oh,  come,  come ! "  cried  the  beauty,  rising  and 
stamping  impatiently  with  her  little  foot,  "  suppose 
we  dance,  too." 

She  pulled  Hartley  forward  by  the  hand ;  her  hus- 
band followed  with  the  taller  Miss  Willett;  two  of 
the  Canadians,  at  the  instance  of  Mrs.  Macallister, 
came  forward  and  politely  asked  the  honor  of  the 
other  young  ladies'  hands  in  the  dance ;  their  temper 
was  infectious,  and  the  cotillon  was  in  full  life  before 
their  partners  had  time  to  wonder  at  their  consent. 
Mrs.  Macallister  could  sing  some  of  the  Canadian 
songs ;  her  voice,  clear  and  fresh,  rang  through  those 
of  the  men,  while  in  at  the  window,  thrown  open  for 
air,  came  the  wild  cries  of  the  forest,  —  the  wail  of  a 
catamount,  and  the  solemn  hooting  of  a  distant  owl. 

"  Is  n't  it  jolly  good  fun  ? "  she  demanded,  when  the 
figure  was  finished ;  and  now  Kinney  went  up  to  the 
first-class  clog-dancer,  and  prevailed  with  him  to  show 
his  skill.  He  seemed  to  comply  on  condition  that  the 
whistler  should  furnish  the  music ;  he  came  forward 
with  a  bashful  hauteur,  bridling  stiffly  like  a  girl,  aud 
struck  into  the  laborious  and  monotonous  jig  which 
is,  perhaps,  our  national  dance.  He  was  exquisitely 
shaped,  and  as  he  danced  he  suppled  more  and  more, 
while  the  whistler  warbled  a  wilder  and  swifter  strain, 
and  kept  time  with  his  hands.  There  was  something 
that  stirred  the  blood  in  the  fury  of  the  strain  and 
dance.  When  it  was  done,  Mrs.  Macallister  caught 


136  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

off  her  cap  and  ran  round  among  the  spectators  to 
make  them  pay ;  she  excused  no  one,  and  she  gave 
the  money  to  Kinney,  telling  him  to  get  his  loggers 
something  to  keep  the  cold  out. 

"  I  should  say  whiskey,  if  I  were  in  the  Canadian 
bush,"  she  suggested. 

"  Well,  /  guess  we  sha'n't  say  anything  of  that  sort 
in  this  camp,"  said  Kinney. 

She  turned  upon  Bartley,  "  I  know  Mr.  Hubbard 
is  dying  to  do  something.  Do  something,  Mr.  Hub- 
bard  ! "  Bartley  looked  up  in  surprise  at  this  in- 
terpretation of  his  tacit  wish  to  distinguish  himself 
before  her.  "Come,  sing  us  some  of  your  student 
songs." 

Bartley's  vanity  had  confided  the  fact  of  his  col- 
lege training  to  her,  and  he  was  really  thinking  just 
then  that  he  would  like  to  give  them  a  serio-comic 
song,  for  which  he  had  been  famous  with  his  class. 
He  borrowed  the  violin  of  a  Kanuck,  and,  sitting 
down,  strummed  upon  it  banjo- wise.  The  song  was 
one  of  those  which  is  partly  spoken  and  acted ;  he 
really  did  it  very  well ;  but  the  Willett  and  Witherby 
ladies  did  not  seem  to  understand  it  quite ;  and  the 
gentlemen  looked  as  if  they  thought  this  very  undig- 
nified business  for  an  educated  American. 

Mrs.  Macallister  feigned  a  yawn,  and  put  up  her 
hand  to  hide  it.  "  Oh,  what  a  styupid  song ! "  she 
said.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  began  to  put  on 
her  wraps.  The  others  were  glad  of  this  signal  to  go, 
and  followed  her  example.  "  Good  by  !  "  she  cried, 
giving  her  hand  to  Kinney.  "/  don't  think  your 
ideas  are  ridiculous.  I  think  there 's  no  end  of  good 
sense  in  them,  I  assure  you.  I  hope  you  won't  leave 
off  that  regard  for  the  brain  in  your  cooking.  Good 
by ! "  She  waved  her  hand  to  the  Americans,  and 
then  to  the  Kanucks,  as  she  passed  out  between  theii 
respectfully  parted  ranks.  "  Adieu,  messieurs  ! "  She 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  137 

merely  nodded  to  Bartley;  the  others  parted  from 
him  coldly,  as  he  fancied,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  been  made  responsible  for  that  woman's  co- 
quetries, when  he  was  conscious,  all  the  time,  of  hav- 
ing forborne  even  to  meet  them  half-way.  But  this 
was  not  so  much  to  his  credit  as  he  imagined.  The 
flirt  can  only  practise  her  audacities  safely  by  grace 
of  those  upon  whom  she  uses  them,  and  if  men  really 
met  them  half-way  there  could  be  no  such  thing  as 
flirting. 


138  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 


XL 


THE  loggers  pulled  off  their  boots  and  got  into  theii 
bunks,  where  some  of  them  lay  and  smoked,  while 
others  fell  asleep  directly. 

Bartley  made  some  indirect  approaches  to  Kinney 
for  sympathy  in  the  snub  which  he  had  received, 
and  which  rankled  in  his  mind  with  unabated  keen- 
ness. 

But  Kinney  did  not  respond.  "  Your  bed  's  ready," 
he  said.  "  You  can  turn  in  whenever  you  like." 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Bartley. 

"Nothing's  the  matter,  if  you  say  so,"  answered 
Kinney,  going  about  some  preparations  for  the  morn- 
ing's breakfast. 

Bartley  looked  at  his  resentful  back.  He  saw  that 
he  was  hurt,  and  he  surmised  that  Kinney  suspected 
him  of  making  fun  of  his  eccentricities  to  Mrs.  Mac- 
allister.  He  had  laughed  at  Kinney,  and  tried  to 
amuse  her  with  him ;  but  he  could  not  have  made 
this  appear  as  harmless  as  it  was.  He  rose  from  the 
bench  on  which  he  had  been  sitting,  and  shut  with  a 
click  the  penknife  with  which  he  had  been  cutting  a 
pattern  on  its  edge. 

"  I  shall  have  to  say  good  night  to  you,  I  believe," 
he  said,  going  to  the  peg  on  which  Kinney  had  hung 
his  hat  and  overcoat.  He  had  them  on,  and  was  but- 
toning the  coat  in  an  angry  tremor  before  Kinney 
looked  up  and  realized  what  his  guest  was  about. 

"  Why,  what  —  why,  where  —  you  goin'  ? "  he  fal- 
tered in  dismay. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  139 

"To  Equity,"  said  Bartley,  feeling  in  his  coat 
pockets  for  his  gloves,  and  drawing  them  on,  without 
looking  at  Kinney,  whose  great  hands  were  in  a  pan 
of  dough. 

"  Why  —  why  —  no,  you  aint ! "  he  protested,  with 
a  revulsion  of  feeling  that  swept  away  all  his  resent- 
ment, and  left  him  nothing  but  remorse  for  his  inhos- 
pitality. 

"  No  ?  "  said  Bartley,  putting  up  the  collar  of  the 
first  ulster  worn  by  a  native  in  that  region. 

"  Why,  look  here  ! "  cried  Kinney,  pulling  his 
hands  out  of  the  dough,  and  making  a  fruitless  effort 
to  cleanse  them  upon  each  other.  "  I  don't  want  you 
to  go,  this  way." 

"  Don't  you  ?  I  'rn  sorry  to  disoblige  you ;  but  I  'm 
going,"  said  Bartley. 

Kinney  tried  to  laugh.  "  Why,  Hubbard,  —  why, 
Bartley,  —  why,  Bart ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  What 's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  I  aint  mad  ! " 

"  You  have  an  unfortunate  manner,  then.  Good 
night."  He  strode  out  between  the  bunks,  full  of 
snoring  loggers. 

Kinney  hurried  after  him,  imploring  and  protesting 
in  a  low  voice,  trying  to  get  before  him,  and  longing 
to  lay  his  floury  paws  upon  him  and  detain  him  by 
main  force,  but  even  in  his  distress  respecting  Bart- 
ley's  overcoat  too  much  to  touch  it.  He  followed  him 
out  into  the  freezing  air  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and 
besought  him  not  to  be  such  a  fool.  "  It  makes  me 
feel  like  the  devil!"  he  exclaimed,  pitifully.  "You 
come  back,  now,  half  a  minute,  and  1 11  make  it  all 
right  with  you.  I  know  I  can;  you  're  a  gentleman, 
and  you  '11  understand.  Do  come  back !  I  shall 
never  get  over  it  if  you  don't!" 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  said  Bartley,  "  but  I  'm  not  going 
back.  Good  night." 

"  Oh,  good  Lordy ! "  lamented  Kinney.    "  What  am 


140  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

I  goin'  to  do  ?  Why,  man !  It 's  a  good  three  mile 
and  more  to  Equity,  and  the  woods  is  full  of  cata- 
mounts. I  tell  ye  't  aint  safe  for  ye."  He  kept  fol- 
lowing Hartley  down  the  path  to  the  road. 

"  1 11  risk  it,"  said  Bartley. 

Kinney  had  left  the  door  of  the  camp  open,  and  the 
yells  and  curses  of  the  awakened  sleepers  recalled 
him  to  himself.  "Well,  well!  If  you  will  go"  he 
groaned  in  despair,  "  here  's  that  money."  He  plunged 
his  doughy  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  pulled  out  a 
roll  of  bills.  "  Here  it  is.  I  haint  time  to  count  it ; 
but  it  '11  be  all  right,  anyhow." 

Bartley  did  not  even  turn  his  head  to  look  round 
at  him.  "  Keep  your  money  !"  he  said,  as  he  plunged 
forward  through  the  snow.  "  I  would  n't  touch  a  cent 
of  it  to  save  your  life." 

"  All  right,"  said  Kinney,  in  hapless  contrition,  and 
he  returned  to  shut  himself  in  with  the  reproaches  of 
the  loggers  and  the  upbraiding  of  his  own  heart. 

Bartley  dashed  along  the  road  in  a  fury  that  kept 
him  unconscious  of  the  intense  cold ;  and  he  passed 
half  the  night,  when  he  was  once  more  in  his  own 
room,  packing  his  effects  against  his  departure  next 
day.  When  all  was  done,  he  went  to  bed,  half  wish- 
ing that  he  might  never  rise  from  it  again.  It  was 
not  that  he  cared  for  Kinney  ;  that  fool's  sulking  was 
only  the  climax  of  a  long  series  of  injuries  of  which 
he  was  the  victim  at  the  hands  of  a  hypercritical 
omnipotence. 

Despite  his  conviction  that  it  was  useless  to  strug- 
gle longer  against  such  injustice,  he  lived  through  the 
night,  and  came  down  late  to  breakfast,  which  he 
found  stale,  and  without  the  compensating  advantage 
of  finding  himself  alone  at  the  table.  Some  ladies 
had  lingered  there  to  clear  up  on  the  best  authority 
the  distracting  rumors  concerning  him  which  they 
had  heard  the  day  before.  Was  it  true  that  he  had 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  141 

intended  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  winter  in  logging  ? 
and  was  it  true  that  he  was  going  to  give  up  the 
Free  Press  ?  and  was  it  true  that  Henry  Bird  was 
going  to  be  the  editor  ?  Bartley  gave  a  sarcastic  con- 
firmation to  all  these  reports,  and  went  out  to  the 
printing-office  to  gather  up  some  things  of  his.  He 
found  Henry  Bird  there,  looking  pale  and  sick,  but  at 
work,  and  seemingly  in  authority.  This  was  what 
Bartley  had  always  intended  when  he  should  go  out, 
but  he  did  not  like  it,  and  he  resented  some  small 
changes  that  had  already  been  made  in  the  editor's 
room,  in  tacit  recognition  of  his  purpose  not  to  occupy 
it  again. 

Bird  greeted  him  stiffly;  the  printer  girls  briefly 
nodded  to  him,  suppressing  some  little  hysterical  tit- 
ters, and  tacitly  let  him  feel  that  he  was  no  longer 
master  there.  While  he  was  in  the  composing-room 
Hannah  Morrison  came  in,  apparently  from  some 
errand  outside,  and,  catching  sight  of  him,  stared,  and 
pertly  passed  him  in  silence.  On  his  inkstand  he 
found  a  letter  from  Squire  Gaylord,  briefly  auditing 
his  last  account,  and  enclosing  the  balance  due  him. 
From  this  the  old  lawyer,  with  the  careful  smallness 
of  a  village  business  man,  had  deducted  various  little 
sums  for  things  which  Bartley  had  never  expected  to 
pay  for.  With  a  like  thriftiness  the  landlord,  when 
Bartley  asked  for  his  bill,  had  charged  certain  items 
that  had  not  appeared  in  the  bills  before.  Bartley  felt 
that  the  charges  were  trumped  up ;  but  he  was  pow- 
erless to  dispute  them ;  besides,  he  hoped  to  sell  the 
landlord  his  colt  and  cutter,  and  he  did  not  care  to 
prejudice  that  matter.  Some  bills  from  storekeepers, 
which  he  thought  he  had  paid,  were  handed  to  him 
by  the  landlord,  and  each  of  the  churches  had  sent  in 
a  little  account  for  pew-rent  for  the  past  eighteen 
months :  he  had  always  believed  himself  dead-headed 
at  church.  He  outlawed  the  latter  by  tearing  them  to 


142  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

pieces  in  the  landlord's  presence,  and  dropping  the 
fragments  into  a  spittoon.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
every  soul  in  Equity  was  making  a  clutch  at  the 
rapidly  diminishing  sum  of  money  which  Squire  Gay- 
lord  had  enclosed  to  him,  and  which  was  all  he  had 
in  the  world.  On  the  other  hand,  his  popularity  in 
the  village  seemed  to  have  vanished  over  night.  He 
had  sometimes  fancied  a  general  and  rebellious  grief 
when  it  should  become  known  that  he  was  going 
away ;  but  instead  there  was  an  acquiescence  amount- 
ing to  airiness. 

He  wondered  if  anything  about  his  affairs  with 
Henry  Bird  and  Hannah  Momson  had  leaked  out. 
But  he  did  not  care.  He  only  wished  to  shake  the 
snow  of  Equity  off  his  feet  as  soon  as  possible. 

After  dinner,  when  the  boarders  had  gone  out,  and 
the  loafers  had  not  yet  gathered  in,  he  offered  the 
landlord  his  colt  and  cutter.  Bartley  knew  that  the 
landlord  wanted  the  colt;  but  now  the  latter  said, 
"  I  don't  know  as  I  care  to  buy  any  horses,  right  in 
the  winter,  this  way." 

"All  right,"  answered  Bartley.  "Just  have  the 
colt  put  into  the  cutter." 

Andy  Morrison  brought  it  round.  The  boy  looked 
at  Bartley's  set  face  with  a  sort  of  awe-stricken  affec- 
tion ;  his  adoration  for  the  young  man  survived  all 
that  he  had  heard  said  against  him  at  home  during 
the  series  of  family  quarrels  that  had  ensued  upon 
his  father's  interview  with  him ;  he  longed  to  testify, 
somehow,  his  unabated  loyalty,  but  he  could  not  think 
of  anything  to  do,  much  less  to  say. 

Bartley  pitched  his  valise  into  the  cutter,  and  then, 
as  Andy  left  the  horse's  head  to  give  him  a  hand  with 
his  trunk,  offered  him  a  dollar.  "  I  don't  want  any- 
thing," said  the  boy,  shyly  refusing  the  money  out 
of  pure  affection. 

But  Bartley  mistook  his  motive,  and  thought  it 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  143 

sulky  resentment.  "  Oh,  very  well/'  he  said.  "  Take 
hold." 

The  landlord  came  out.  "  Hold  on  a  minute,"  he 
said.  "  Where  you  goin'  to  take  the  cars  ? " 

"At  the  Junction,"  answered  Bartley.  "I  know  a 
man  there  that  will  buy  the  colt.  What  is  it  you 
want  ? " 

The  landlord  stepped  back  a  few  paces,  and  sur- 
veyed the  establishment.  "  I  should  like  to  ride  after 
that  hoss,"  he  said,  "if  you  aint  in  any  great  of  a 
hurry." 

"  Get  in,"  said  Bartley,  and  the  landlord  took  the 
reins. 

From  time  to  time,  as  he  drove,  he  rose  up  and 
looked  over  the  dashboard  to  study  the  gait  of  the 
horse.  "  I  've  noticed  he  strikes  some,  when  he  first 
comes  out  in  the  spring." 

"  Yes,"  Bartley  assented. 

"  Pulls  consid'able." 

"  He  pulls." 

The  landlord  rose  again  and  scrutinized  the  horse's 
legs.  "  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  noticed  't  he  'd  capped 
his  hock  before." 

"  Did  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Done  it  kickin'  nights,  I  guess." 

"  I  guess  so." 

The  landlord  drew  the  whip  lightly  across  the  colt's 
rear;  he  shrank  together,  and  made  a  little  spring 
forward,  but  behaved  perfectly  well. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  should  always  be  sure  he 
would  n't  kick  in  the  daytime." 

"  No,"  said  Bartley,  "  you  never  ean  be  sure  of  any- 
thing." 

They  drove  along  in  silence.  At  last  the  landlord 
said,  "  Well,  he  aint  so  fast  as  I  supposed!' 

"  He 's  not  sc  fast  a  horse  as  some,"  answered 
Burtley. 


144  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

The  landlord  leaned  over  sidewise  for  an  inspection 
of  the  colt's  action  forward.  "  Haint  never  thought 
he  had  a  splint  on  that  forward  off  leg  ?  " 

"  A  splint  ?     Perhaps  he  has  a  splint." 

They  returned  to  the  hotel  and  both  alighted. 

"  Skittish  devil,"  remarked  the  landlord,  as  the  colt 
quivered  under  the  hand  he  laid  upon  him. 

"  He 's  skittish,"  said  Hartley. 

The  landlord  retired  as  far  back  as  the  door,  and 
regarded  the  colt  critically.  "  Well,  I  s'pose  you  've 
always  used  hirn  too  well  ever  to  winded  him,  but 
dumn  'f  he  don't  blow  like  it." 

"  Look  here,  Simpson,"  said  Bartley,  very  quietly. 
"  You  know  this  horse  as  well  as  I  do,  and  you 
know  there  isn't  an  out  about  hirn.  You  want  to 
buy  him  because  you  always  have.  Now  make  me 
un  offer." 

"Well,"  groaned  the  landlord,  "what '11  you  take 
for  the  whole  rig,  just  as  it  stands,  —  colt,  cutter, 
leathers,  and  robe  ?  " 

"  Two  hundred  dollars,"  promptly  replied  Bartley. 

"  I  '11  give  ye  seventy-five,"  returned  the  landlord 
with  equal  promptness. 

"  Andy,  take  hold  of  the  end  of  that  trunk,  will 
you?" 

The  landlord  allowed  them  to  put  the  trunk  into 
the  cutter.  Bartley  got  in  too,  and,  shifting  the 
baggage  to  one  side,  folded  th,e  robe  around  him  from 
his  middle  down  and  took  his  seat.  "  This  colt  can 
road  you  right  along  all  day  inside  of  five  minutes, 
and  he  can  trot  inside  of  two-thirty  every  time ;  and 
you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Well,"  said  the  landlord,  "  make  it  an  even  hun- 
dred." 

Bartley  leaned  forward  and  gathered  up  the  reins. 
*  Let  go  his  head,  Andy,"  he  quietly  commanded. 

"  Make  it  one  and  a  quarter,"  cried  the  landlord, 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  145 

not  seeing  that  his  chance  was  past.     "  What  do  you 
say  ? " 

What  Bartley  said,  as  he  touched  the  colt  with  the 
whip,  the  landlord  never  knew.  He  stood  watching 
the  cutter's  swiit  disappearance  up  the  road,  in  a  sort 
of  stupid  expectation  of  its  return.  When  he  realized 
that  Hartley's  departure  was  final,  he  said  under  his 
hreath,  "  Sold,  ye  duinned  old  fool,  and  serve  ye  right," 
and  went  in-doors  with  a  feeling  of  admiration  for 
colt  and  man  that  bordered  on  reverence. 


146  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 


XII 

THIS  last  drop  of  the  local  meanness  filled  Bartley'g 
bitter  cup.  As  he  passed  the  house  at  the  end  of  the 
street  he  seemed  to  drain  it  all.  He  knew  that  the 
old  lawyer  was  there  sitting  by  the  office  stove,  draw- 
ing his  hand  across  his  chin,  and  Bartley  hoped  that 
he  was  still  as  miserable  as  he  had  looked  when  he 
last  saw  him ;  but  he  did  not  know  that  by  the  win- 
dow in  the  house,  which  he  would  not  even  look  at, 
Marcia  sat  self-prisoned  in  her  room,  with  her  eyes 
upon  the  road,  famishing  for  the  thousandth  part  of  a 
chance  to  see  him  pass.  She  saw  him  now  for  the 
instant  of  his  coming  and  going.  With  eyes  trained 
to  take  in  every  point,  she  saw  the  preparation  which 
seemed  like  final  departure,  and  with  a  gasp  of  "  Bart- 
ley  ! "  as  if  she  were  trying  to  call  after  him,  she  sank 
back  into  her  chair  and  shut  her  eyes. 

He  drove  on,  plunging  into  the  deep  hollow  beyond 
the  house,  and  keeping  for  several  miles  the  road  they 
had  taken  on  that  Sunday  together ;  but  he  did  not 
make  the  turn  that  brought  them  back  to  the  village 
again.  The  pale  sunset  was  slanting  over  the  snow 
when  he  reached  the  Junction,  for  he  had  slackened 
his  colt's  pace  after  he  had  put  ten  miles  behind  him, 
not  choosing  to  reach  a  prospective  purchaser  with 
his  horse  all  blown  and  bathed  with  sweat.  He 
wished  to  be  able  to  say,  "  Look  at  him !  He 's  come 
fifteen  miles  since  three  o'clock,  and  he 's  as  keen  as 
when  he  started." 

This  was  true,  when,  having  left  his  baggage  at  the 
Junction,  he  drove  another  mile  into  the  country  to 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  147 

see  the  farmer  of  the  gentleman  who  had  his  summer- 
house  here,  and  who  had  once  bantered  Bartley  to 
sell  him  his  colt.  The  farmer  was  away,  and  would 
not  be  at  home  till  the  up-train  from  Boston  was  in. 
Bartley  looked  at  his  watch,  and  saw  that  to  wait 
would  lose  him  the  six  o'clock  down-train.  There 
would  be  no  other  till  eleven  o'clock.  But  it  was 
worth  while :  the  gentleman  had  said,  "  When  you 
want  the  money  for  that  colt,  bring  him  over  any 
time;  my  farmer  will  have  it  ready  for  you."  He 
waited  for  the  up-train ;  but  when  the  farmer  arrived, 
he  was  full  of  all  sorts  of  scruples  and  reluctances. 
He  said  he  should  not  like  to  buy  it  till  he  had  heard 
from  Mr.  Farnham ;  he  ended  by  offering  Bartley 
eighty  dollars  for  the  colt  on  his  own  account;  he 
did  not  want  the  cutter. 

"  You  write  to  Mr.  Farnham,"  said  Bartley,  "  that 
you  tried  that  plan  with  me,  and  it  would  n't  work  • 
he 's  lost  the  colt." 

He  made  this  brave  show  of  indifference,  but  he 
was  disheartened,  and,  having  carried  the  farmer  home 
from  the  Junction  for  the  convenience  of  talking  over 
the  trade  with  him,  he  drove  back  again  through  the 
early  night-fall  in  sullen  desperation. 

The  weather  had  softened  and  was  threatening  rain 
or  snow;  the  dark  was  closing  in  spiritlessly;  the 
colt,  shortening  from  a  trot  into  a  short,  springy  jolt, 
dropped  into  a  walk  at  last  as  if  he  were  tired,  and 
gave  Bartley  time  enough  on  his  way  back  to  the 
Junction  for  reflection  upon  the  disaster  into  which 
his  life  had  fallen.  These  passages  of  utter  despair 
are  commoner  to  the  young  than  they  are  to  those 
whom  years  have  experienced  in  the  impermanence 
of  any  fate,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  unless,  perhaps, 
the  last  may  seem  rather  constant.  Taken  in  refer- 
ence to  all  that  had  been  ten  days  ago,  the  present 
ruin  was  incredible,  and  had  nothing  reasonable  in 


148  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

proof  of  its  existence.  Then  he  was  prosperously 
placed,  and  in  the  way  to  better  himself  indefinitely. 
Now,  he  was  here  in  the  dark,  with  fifteen  dollars  in 
his  pocket,  and  an  unsalable  horse  on  his  hands ;  out- 
cast, deserted,  homeless,  hopeless  :  and  by  whose  fault  \ 
He  owned  even  then  that  he  had  committed  some 
Follies ;  but  in  his  sense  of  Marcia's  all-giving  love  he 
had  risen  for  once  in  his  life  to  a  conception  of  self- 
devotion,  and  in  taking  herself  from  him  as  she  did, 
she  had  taken  from  him  the  highest  incentive  he  had 
ever  known,  and  had  checked  him  in  his  first  feeble 
impulse  to  do  and  be  all  in  all  for  another.  It  was 
she  who  had  ruined  him. 

As  he  jumped  out  of  the  cutter  at  the  Junction  the 
station-master  stopped  with  a  cluster  of  party-colored 
signal-lanterns  in  his  hand  and  cast  their  light  over 
the  sorrel. 

"  Nice  colt  you  got  there." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bartley,  blanketing  the  horse,  "  do  you 
know  anybody  who  wants  to  buy  ? " 

"  Whose  is  he  ? "  asked  the  man. 

"  He 's  mine ! "  shouted  Bartley.  "  Do  you  think  -I 
stole  him  ? " 

"  /  don't  know  where  you  got  him,"  said  the  man, 
walking  off,  and  making  a  soft  play  of  red  and  green 
lights  on  the  snow  beyond  the  narrow  platform. 

Bartley  went  into  the  great  ugly  barn  of  a  station, 
trembling,  and  sat  down  in  one  of  the  gouged  and 
whittled  arm-chairs  near  the  stove.  A  pomp  of  time- 
tables and  luminous  advertisements  of  Western  rail- 
roads and  their  land-grants  decorated  the  wooden 
walls  of  the  gentlemen's  waiting-room,  which  had 
been  sanded  to  keep  the  gentlemen  from  writing  and 
sketching  upon  them.  This  was  the  more  judicious 
because  the  ladies'  room,  in  the  absence  of  tourist 
travel,  was  locked  in  winter,  and  they  were  obliged 
to  share  the  gentlemen's.  In  summer,  the  Junction 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  149 

was  a  busy  place,  but  after  the  snow  fell,  and  until 
the  snow  thawed,  it  was  a  desolation  relieved  only 
by  the  arrival  of  the  sparsely  peopled  through-trains 
from  the  north  and  east,  and  by  such  local  travellers 
as  wished  to  take  trains  not  stopping  at  their  own 
stations.  These  broke  in  upon  the  solitude  of  the 
joint  station-master  and  baggage-man  and  switch- 
tender  with  just  sufficient  frequency  to  keep  him  in  a 
state  of  uncharitable  irritation  and  unrest.  To-night 
Bartley  was  the  sole  intruder,  and  he  sat  by  the  stove 
wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  rebellious  memories,  when 
one  side  of  a  colloquy  without  made  itself  heard. 

"What?" 

Some  question  was  repeated. 

"  No ;  it  went  down  half  an  hour  ago." 

An  inaudible  question  followed. 

"  Next  down-train  at  eleven." 

There  was  now  a  faintly  audible  lament  or  appeal. 

"Guess  you'll   have  to  come   earlier   next  time. 
Most  folks  doos  that  wants  to  take  it." 

Bartley  now  heard  the  despairing  moan  of  a  woman : 
he  had  already  divined  the  sex  of  the  futile  questioner 
whom  the  station-master  was  bullying ;  but  he  had 
divined  it  without  compassion,  and  if  he  had  not  him- 
self been  a  sufferer  from  the  man's  insolence  he  might 
even  have  felt  a  ferocious  satisfaction  in  it.  In  a 
word,  he  was  at  his  lowest  and  worst  when  the  door 
opened  and  the  woman  came  in,  with  a  movement  at 
once  bewildered  and  daring,  which  gave  him  the  im- 
pression of  a  despair  as  complete  and  final  as  his  own. 
He  doggedly  kept  his  place ;  she  did  not  seem  to  care 
for  him,  but  in  the  uncertain  light  of  the  lamp  abovt 
them  she  drew  near  the  stove,  and,  putting  one  hand 
to  her  pocket  as  if  to  find  her  handkerchief,  she  flung 
aside  her  veil  with  her  other,  and  showed  her  tear 
etained  face. 

He  was  on  his  feet  somehow.     "  Marcia  1 " 


150  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"OhIBartley  —  " 

He  had  seized  her  by  the  arm  to  make  sure  that 
she  was  there  in  verity  of  fleoh  and  blood,  and  not  by 
some  trick  of  his  own  senses,  as  a  cold  chill  running 
over  him  had  made  him  afraid.  At  the  touch  their 
passion  ignored  all  that  they  had  made  each  other 
suffer ;  her  head  was  on  his  breast,  his  embrace  was 
round  her;  it  was  a  moment  of  delirious  bliss  that 
intervened  between  the  sorrows  that  had  been  and 
the  reasons  that  must  come. 

"  What —  what  are  you  doing  here,  Marcia  ? "  he 
asked  at  last. 

They  sank  on  the  benching  that  ran  round  the 
wall ;  he  held  her  hands  fast  in  one  of  his,  and  kept 
his  other  arm  about  her  as  they  sat  side  by  side. 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  —  "  She  seemed  to  rouse  her- 
self by  an  effort  from  her  rapture.  "  I  was  going  to 
see  Nettie  Spaulding.  And  I  saw  you  driving  past 
our  house  ;  and  I  thought  you  were  coming  here  ;  and 
I  could  n't  bear  —  I  could  n't  bear  to  let  you  go  away 
without  telling  you  that  I  was  wrong ;  and  asking  — 
asking  you  to  forgive  me.  I  thought  you  would  do  it, 

—  I  thought  you  would  know  that  I  had  behaved  that 
way  because  I  —  I — cared  so  much  for  you.   I  thought 

—  I  was  afraid  you  had  gone  on  the  other  train  —  " 
She  trembled  and  sank  back  in  his  embrace,  from 
which  she  had  lifted  herself  a  little. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?  "  asked  Bartley,  as  if 
willing  to  give  himself  all  the  proofs  he  could  of  the 
every-clay  reality  of  her  presence. 

"Andy  Morrison  brought  me.  Father  sent  hi  in 
from  the  hotel.  I  didn't  care  what  you  would  say 
to  me.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  was  wrong,  and 
not  let  you  go  away  feeling  that  —  that  —  you  were 
all  to  blame.  I  thought  when  I  had  done  that  you 
might  drive  me  away,  —  or  laugh  at  me,  or  anything 
you  pleased,  if  only  you  would  let  me  take  back  —  " 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  151 

"Yes,"  he  answered  dreamily.  All  that  wicked 
hardness  was  breaking  up  within  him ;  he  felt  it  melt- 
ing drop  by  drop  in  his  heart.  This  poor  love-tossed 
soul,  this  frantic,  unguided,  reckless  girl,  was  an  an- 
gel of  mercy  to  him,  and  in  her  folly  and  error  a 
messenger  of  heavenly  peace  and  hope.  "  I  am  a  bad 
fellow,  Marcia,"  he  faltered.  "  You  ought  to  know 
that.  You  did  right  to  give  me  up.  I  made  love  to 
Hannah  Morrison ;  I  never  promised  to  marry  her, 
but  I  made  her  think  that  I  was  fond  of  her." 

"  I  don't  care  for  that,"  replied  the  girl.  "  I  told 
you  when  we  were  first  engaged  that  I  would  nevei 
think  of  anything  that  had  gone  before  that;  and 
then  when  I  would  not  listen  to  a  word  from  you, 
that  day,  I  broke  my  promise." 

"When  I  struck  Henry  Bird  because  he  was  jeal- 
ous of  me,  I  was  as  guilty  as  if  I  had  killed  him." 

"  If  you  had  killed  him,  I  was  bound  to  you  by  my 
word.  Your  striking  him  was  part  of  the  same  thing, 
—  part  of  what  I  had  promised  I  never  would  care 
for."  A  gush  of  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  she  saw 
them.  "  Oh,  poor  Bartley  !  Poor  Bartley  !  " 

She  took  his  head  between  her  hands  and  pressed 
it  hard  against  her  heart,  and  then  wrapped  her  arms 
tight  about  him,  and  softly  bemoaned  him. 

They  drew  a  little  apart  when  the  man  came  in 
with  his  lantern,  and  set  it  down  to  mend  the  fire. 
But  as  a  railroad  employee  he  was  far  too  familiar 
with  the  love  that  vaunts  itself  on  all  railroad  trains 
to  feel  that  he  was  an  intruder.  He  scarcely  looked 
at  them,  and  went  out  when  he  had  mended  the  fire, 
and  left  it  purring. 

"  Where  is  Andy  Morrison  ?  "  asked  Bartley.  "  Has 
he  gone  back  ? " 

"  No  ;  he  is  at  the  hotel  over  there.  I  told  him  to 
svait  till  I  found  out  when  the  train  went  north." 

"  So  you  inquired  when  it  went  to  Boston,"  said 


152  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

Hartley,  with  a  touch  of  his  old  raillery.  "  Come," 
he  added,  taking  her  hand  under  his  arm.  He  led 
her  out  of  the  room,  to  where  his  cutter  stood  outside. 
She  was  astonished  to  find  the  colt  there. 

"  I  wonder  I  did  n't  see  it.  But  if  I  had,  I  should 
have  thought  that  you  had  sold  it  and  gone  away ; 
Andy  told  me  you  were  coming  here  to  sell  the  colt. 
When  the  man  told  me  the  express  was  gone,  I  knew 
you  were  on  it." 

They  found  the  boy  stolidly  waiting  for  Marcia  on 
the  veranda  of  the  hotel,  stamping  first  upon  one 
foot  and  then  the  other,  and  hugging  himself  in  his 
great-coat  as  the  coming  snow-fall  blew  its  first  flakes 
in  his  face. 

"  Is  that  you,  Andy  ? "  asked  Bartley. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  boy,  without  surprise  at 
finding  him  with  Marcia. 

"  Well,  here !  Just  take  hold  of  the  colt's  head  a 
minute." 

As  the  boy  obeyed,  Bartley  threw  the  reins  on  the 
dashboard,  and  leaped  out  of  the  cutter,  and  went 
within.  He  returned  after  a  brief  absence,  followed 
by  the  landlord. 

"  Well,  it  ain  't  more  'n  a  mile  'n  a  half,  if  it 's  that. 
You  just  keep  straight  along  this  street,  and  take 
your  first  turn  to  the  left,  and  you  're  right  at  the 
house ;  it 's  the  first  house  on  the  left-hand  side." 

"  Thanks,"  returned  Bartley.  "  Andy,  you  tell  the 
Squire  that  you  left  Marcia  with  me,  and  I  said  I 
would  see  about  her  getting  back.  You  needn't 
hurry." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  boy,  and  he  disappeared  round 
the  corner  of  the  house  to  get  his  horse  from  the 
barn. 

"  Well,  I  '11  be  all  ready  by  the  time  you  're  here," 
said  the  landlord,  still  holding  the  hall-door  ajar. 
"  Luck  to  you  ! "  he  shouted,  shutting  it. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  153 

Marcia  locked  both  her  hands  through  Bartley's 
arm,  and  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  Neither 
spoke  for  some  minutes ;  then  he  asked,  "  Marcia,  do 
you  know  where  you  are  ? " 

"  With  you,"  she  answered,  in  a  voice  of  utter  peace. 

"  Do  you  know  where  we  are  going  ? "  he  asked, 
leaning  over  to  kiss  her  cold,  pure  cheek. 

"  No,"  she  answered  in  as  perfect  content  as  "before. 

"  We  are  going  to  get  married." 

He  felt  her  grow  tense  in  her  clasp  upon  his  arm, 
and  hold  there  rigidly  for  a  moment,  while  the  swift 
thoughts  whirled  through  her  mind.  Then,  as  if  the 
struggle  had  ended,  she  silently  relaxed,  and  leaned 
more  heavily  against  him. 

"  There  's  still  time  to  go  back,  Marcia,"  he  said, 
"  if  you  wish.  That  turn  to  the  right,  yonder,  will 
take  us  to  Equity,  and  you  can  be  at  home  in  two 
hours."  She  quivered.  " I'm  a  poor  man,  —  I  sup- 
pose you  know  that ;  I  've  only  got  fifteen  dollars  in 
the  world,  and  the  colt  here.  I  know  I  can  get  on ; 
I  'm  not  afraid  for  myself ;  but  if  you  would  rather 
wait,  —  if  you  're  not  perfectly  certain  of  yourself,  — 
remember,  it 's  going  to  be  a  struggle ;  we  're  going  to 
have  some  hard  times — " 

"  You  forgive  me  ? "  she  huskily  asked,  for  all 
answer,  without  moving  her  head  from  where  it  lay. 

"  Yes,  Marcia." 

"Then  — hurry." 

The  minister  was  an  old  man,  and  he  seemed  quite 
dazed  at  the  suddenness  of  their  demand  for  his  ser- 
vices. But  he  gathered  himself  together,  and  con- 
trived to  make  them  man  and  wife,  and  to  give  them 
his  marriage  certificate. 

"  It  seems  as  if  there  were  something  else,"  he  said, 
absently,  as  he  handed  the  paper  to  Bartley. 

"  Perhaps  it 's  this,"  said  Bartley,  giving  him  a  five- 
dollar  note  in  return. 


154  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"Ah,  perhaps,"  he  replied,  in  unabated  perplexity 
He  bade  them  serve  God,  and  let  them  out  into  the 
snowy  night,  through  which  they  drove  back  to  the 
hotel. 

The  landlord  had  kindled  a  fire  on  the  hearth  of 
the  Franklin  stove  in  his  parlor,  and  the  blazing  hick- 
ory snapped  in  electrical  sympathy  with  the  storm 
when  they  shut  themselves  into  the  bright  room,  and 
Bartley  took  Marcia  fondly  into  his  arms. 

"Wife!" 

"Husband!" 

They  sat  down  before  the  fire,  hand  in  hand,  and 
talked  of  the  light  things  that  swim  to  the  top,  and 
eddy  round  and  round  on  the  surface  of  our  deepest 
moods.  They  made  merry  over  the  old  minister's 
rerturbation,  which  Bartley  found  endlessly  amusing. 
Then  he  noticed  that  the  dress  Marcia  had  on  was 
the  one  she  had  worn  to  the  sociable  in  Lower  Equity, 
and  she  said,  yes,  she  had  put  it  on  because  he  once 
said  he  liked  it.  He  asked  her  when,  and  she  said, 
oh,  she  knew  ;  but  if  he  could  not  remember,  she  was 
not  going  to  tell  him.  Then  she  wanted  to  know  if 
he  recognized  her  by  the  dress  before  she  lifted  her 
veil  in  the  station. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  teasing  laugh.  "  I  was  n't 
thinking  of  you." 

"  Oh,  Bartley !"  she  joyfully  reproached  him.  "You 
must  have  been  ! " 

"Yes,  I  was!  I  was  so  mad  at  you,  that  I  was 
glad  to  have  that  brute  of  a  station-master  bullying 
some  woman  ! " 

"Bartley!" 

He  sat  holding  her  hand.  "Marcia,"  he  said, 
gravely,  "  we  must  write  to  your  father  at  once,  and 
tell  him.  I  want  to  begin  life  in  the  right  way,  and 
I  think  it's  only  fair  to  him." 

She  was  enraptured  at  his  magnanimity.     "Bart 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  155 

ley  !  That 's  like  you  !  Poor  father !  I  declare  — 
Bartley,  I  'm  afraid  I  had  forgotten  him  !  It 's  dread- 
ful ;  but  —  you  put  everything  else  out  of  my  head. 
1  do  believe  I've  died  and  come  to  life  somewhere 
else ! " 

"Well,  /  haven't,"  said  Bartley,  "  and  I  guess 
you  'd  better  write  to  your  father.  You  'd  better 
write  ;  at  present,  he  and  I  are  not  on  speaking  terms. 
Here  !  "  He  took  out  his  note-book,  and  gave  her  his 
atylographic  pen  after  striking  the  fist  that  held  it 
upon  his  other  fist,  in  the  fashion  of  the  amateurs  of 
that  reluctant  instrument,  in  order  to  bring  down  the 
ink. 

"  Oh,  what 's  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It 's  a  new  kind  of  pen.  I  got  it  for  a  notice  in 
the  Free  Press. " 

"  Is  Henry  Bird  going  to  edit  the  paper  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care,"  answered  Bartley. 
"  I  '11  go  out  and  get  an  envelope,  and  ask  the  land- 
lord what 's  the  quickest  way  to  get  the  letter  to 
your  father." 

He  took  up  his  hat,  but  she  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm.  "  Oh,  send  for  him  ! "  she  said. 

"Are  you  afraid  I  sha'ii't  come  back?"  he  de- 
manded, with  a  laughing  kiss.  "  I  want  to  see  him 
about  something  else,  too." 

"  Well,  don't  be  gone  long." 

They  parted  with  an  embrace  that  would  have 
fortified  older  married  people  for  a  year's  separation. 
When  Bartley  came  back,  she  handed  him  the  leaf 
Bhe  had  torn  out  of  his  book,  and  sat  down  beside 
him  while  he  read  it,  with  her  arm  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Dear  father,"  the  letter  ran,  "  Bartley  and  I  are 
married.  We  were  married  an  hour  ago,  just  across 
the  New  Hampshire  line,  by  the  Eev.  Mr.  Jessup. 
Bartley  wants  I  should  let  you  know  the  very  first 
thing.  I  am  going  to  Boston  with  Bartley  to-night* 


156  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

and,  as  soon  as  we  get  settled  there,  I  will  write 
again.  I  want  you  should  forgive  us  both ;  but  if 
you  wont  forgive  Bartley,  you  mustn't  forgive  me. 
Yon  were  mistaken  about  Bartley,  and  I  was  right. 
Bartley  has  told  me  everything,  and  I  am  perfectly 
satisfied.  Love  to  mother. 

"  MARCTA." 

"  P.  S.  —  I  did  intend  to  visit  Netty  Spaulding. 
But  I  saw  Bartley  driving  past  on  his  way  to  the 
Junction,  and  I  determined  to  see  him  if  I  could  be- 
fore he  started  for  Boston,  and  tell  him  I  was  all 
wrong,  no  matter  what  he  said  or  did  afterwards.  I 
ought  to  have  told  you  I  meant  to  see  Bartley ;  but 
then  you  would  not  have  let  me  come,  and  if  I  had 
not  come,  I  should  have  died." 

"  There  *s  a  good  deal  of  Bartley  in  it,"  said  the 
young  man  with  a  laugh. 

"  You  don't  like  it ! " 

"Yes,  I  do;  it's  all  right.  Did  you  use  to  take 
the  prize  for  composition  at  boarding-school  ? " 

"  Why,  I  think  it 's  a  very  good  letter  for  when  I  'm 
in  such  an  excited  state." 

"  It 's  beautiful ! "  cried  Bartley,  laughing  more  and 
more.  The  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

•'  Marcia,"  said  her  husband  fondly,  "  what  a  child 
you  are  !  If  ever  I  do  anything  to  betray  your  trust 
in  me  —  " 

There  came  a  shuffling  of  feet  outside  the  door,  a 
clinking  of  glass  and  crockery,  and  a  jarring  sort  of 
blow,  as  if  some  one  were  trying  to  rap  on  the  panel 
with  the  edge  of  a  heavy-laden  waiter.  Bartley  threw 
the  door  open  and  found  the  landlord  there,  red  and 
smiling,  with  the  waiter  in  his  hand. 

"  I  thought  I  'd  bring  your  supper  in  here,  you 
know,"  he  explained  confidentially,  "  so  's 't  you  could 
have  it  a  little  more  snug.  And  my  wife  she  kind  o* 
got  wind  o'  what  was  going  on,  —  women  will,  you 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  157 

know,"  he  said  with  a  wink,  —  "  and  she 's  sent  ye  in 
some  hot  biscuit  and  a  little  jell,  and  some  of  her 
cake."  He  set  the  waiter  down  on  the  table,  and 
stood  admiring  its  mystery  of  napkined  dishes.  "  She 
guessed  you  would  n't  object  to  some  cold  chicken, 
and  she  's  put  a  little  of  that  on.  Sha'n't  cost  ye  any 
more,"  he  hastened  to  assure  them.  "  Now  this  is 
your  room  till  the  train  comes,  and  there  aint  agoin' 
to  anybody  come  in  here.  So  you  can  make  your- 
selves at  home.  And  /  hope  you  '11  enjoy  your  sup- 
per as  much  as  we  did  ourn  the  night  we  was 
married.  There !  I  guess  I  '11  let  the  lady  fix  the 
table ;  she  looks  as  if  she  knowed  how." 

He  got  himself  out  of  the  room  again,  and  then 
Marcia,  who  had  made  him  some  embarrassed  thanks, 
burst  out  in  praise  of  his  pleasantness. 

"Well,  he  ought  to  be  pleasant,"  said  Bartley, 
"  he  's  just  beaten  me  on  a  horse-trade.  I  've  sold 
him  the  colt." 

"  Sold  him  the  colt ! "  cried  Marcia,  tragically  drop- 
ping the  napkin  she  had  lifted  from  the  plate  of  cold 
chicken. 

"  Well,  we  could  n't  very  well  have  taken  him  to 
Boston  with  us.  And  we  could  n't  have  got  there 
without  selling  him.  You  know  you  have  n't  married 
a  millionnaire,  Marcia." 

"  How  much  did  you  get  for  the  colt  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't  do  so  badly.  I  got  a  hundred  and 
fifty  for  him." 

"  And  you  had  fifteen  besides." 

"That  was  before  we  were  married.  I  gave  the 
minister  five  for  you,  —  I  think  you  are  worth  it.  I 
wanted  to  give  fifteen." 

"  Well,  then,  you  have  a  hundred  and  sixty  now. 
Is  n't  that  a  great  deal  ?  " 

"An  everlasting  lot,"  said  Bartley,  with  an  impa- 
tient laugh.  "  Don't  let  the  supper  cool,  Marcia  ! " 


158  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

She  silently  set  out  the  feast,  but  regarded  it  rue. 
fully.  "  You  ought  n't  to  have  ordered  so  much, 
Bartley,"  she  said.  "  You  could  n't  afford  it." 

"  I  can  afford  anything  when  I  'in  hungry.  Besides. 
I  only  ordered  the  oysters  and  coffee ;  all  the  rest  is 
conscience  money  —  or  sentiment  —  from  the  land- 
lord. Come,  come  !  cheer  up,  now  !  We  sha'n't  starve 
to-night,  anyhow." 

"  Well,  I  know  father  will  help  us." 

"We  sha'n't  count  on  him,"  said  Bartley.  "Now 
drop  it ! "  He  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulders  and 
pressed  her  against  him,  till  she  raised  her  face  for  his 
kiss. 

"Well,  I  will!"  she  said,  and  the  shadow  lifted 
itself  from  their  wedding  feast,  and  they  sat  down 
and  made  merry  as  if  they  had  all  the  money  in  the 
world  to  spend.  They  laughed  and  joked;  they 
praised  the  things  they  liked,  and  made  fun  of  the 
others. 

"  How  strange !  How  perfectly  impossible  it  all 
seems  !  Why,  last  night  I  was  taking  supper  at  Kin- 
ney's  logging-camp,  and  hating  you  at  every  mouthful 
with  all  my  might.  Everything  seemed  against  me. 
and  I  was  feeling  ugly,  and  flirting  like  mad  with  a 
fool  from  Montreal:  she  had  come  out  there  from 
Portland  for  a  frolic  with  the  owners'  party.  You 
made  me  do  it,  Marcia!"  he  cried  jestingly.  "And 
remember  that,  if  you  want  me  to  be  good,  you  must 
be  kind.  The  other  thing  seems  to  make  me  worse 
and  worse." 

"  I  will,  —  I  will,  Bartley,"  she  said  humbly.  "  I 
will  try  to  be  kind  and  patient  with  you.  I  will 
indeed." 

He  threw  back  his  head,  and  laughed  and  laughed. 
"  Poor  —  poor  old  Kinney  !  He  's  the  cook,  you 
know,  and  he  thought  I  'd  been  making  fun  of  him 
to  that  woman,  and  he  behaved  so,  after  they  were 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  159 

gone,  that  I  started  home  in  a  rage ;  and  he  followed 
me  out  with  his  hands  all  covered  with  dough,  and 
wanted  to  stop  me,  but  he  could  n't  for  fear  of  spoil- 
ing my  clothes  — "  He  lost  himself  in  another 
paroxysm. 

Marcia  smiled  a  little.  Then,  "What  sort  of  a 
looking  person  was  she  ? "  she  tremulously  asked. 

Bartley  stopped  abruptly.  "  Not  one  ten-thou- 
sandth part  as  good-looking,  nor  one  millionth  part 
as  bright,  as  Marcia  Hubbard  !  "  He  caught  her  and 
smothered  her  against  his  breast. 

"  I  don't  care !  I  don't  care ! "  she  cried.  "  I  was 
to  blame  more  than  you,  if  you  flirted  with  her,  and 
it  serves  me  right.  Yes,  I  will  never  say  anything 
to  you  for  anything  that  happened  after  I  behaved  so 
to  you." 

"  There  was  n't  anything  else  happened,"  cried 
Bartley.  "And  the  Montreal  woman  snubbed  me 
soundly  before  she  was  done  with  me." 

"  Snubbed  you  ! "  exclaimed  Marcia,  with  illogical 
indignation.  This  delighted  Bartley  so  much  that  it 
was  long  before  he  left  off  laughing  over  her. 

Then  they  sat  down,  and  were  silent  till  she  said, 
"  And  did  you  leave  him  in  a  temper  ? " 

"  Who  ?  Kinney  ?  In  a  perfect  devil  of  a  temper. 
I  would  n't  even  borrow  some  money  he  wanted  to 
lend  me." 

"  Write  to  him,  Bartley,"  said  his  wife,  seriously. 
"I  love  you  so  I  can't  bear  to  have  anybody  bad 
friends  with  you." 


160  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 


XIII. 

THE  whole  thing  was  so  crazy,  as  Bartley  said,  that 
it  made  no  difference  if  they  kept  up  the  expense  a 
few  days  longer.  He  took  a  hack  from  the  depot 
when  they  arrived  in  Boston,  and  drove  to  the  Revere 
House,  instead  of  going  up  in  the  horse-car.  He 
entered  his  name  on  the  register  with  a  flourish, 
"  Bartley  J.  Hubbard  and  Wife,  Boston,"  and  asked 
for  a  room  and  fire,  with  laconic  gruffness ;  but  the 
clerk  knew  him  at  once  for  a  country  person,  and 
when  the  call-boy  followed  him  into  the  parlor  where 
Marcia  sat,  in  the  tremor  into  which  she  fell  whenever 
Bartley  was  out  of  her  sight,  the  call-boy  discerned 
her  provinciality  at  a  glance,  and  made  free  to  say 
that  he  guessed  they  had  better  let  hirn  take  their 
things  up  to  their  room,  and  come  up  themselves  after 
the  porter  had  got  their  fire  going. 

"All  right,"  said  Bartley,  with  hauteur;  and  he 
added,  for  no  reason,  "  Be  quick  about  it." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

"  What  time  is  supper  —  dinner,  I  mean  ? " 

"  It 's  ready  now,  sir." 

"  Good.  Take  up  the  things.  Come  just  as  you 
are,  Marcia.  Let  him  take  your  cap,  —  no,  keep  it  on ; 
a  good  many  of  them  come  down  in  their  bonnets." 

Marcia  put  off  her  sack  and  gloves,  and  hastily 
repaired  the  ravages  of  travel  as  best  she  could.  She 
tvould  have  liked  to  go  to  her  room  just  long  enough 
io  brush  her  hair  a  little,  and  the  fur  cap  made  her 
fcead  hot ;  but  she  was  suddenly  afraid  of  doing 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  161 

something  that  would  seem  countrified  in  Hartley's 
eyes,  and  she  promptly  obeyed  :  they  had  come  from 
Portland  in  a  parlor  car,  and  she  had  been  able  to 
make  a  traveller's  toilet  before  they  reached  Boston. 

She  had  been  at  Portland  several  times  with  her 
father ;  but  he  stopped  at  a  second-class  hotel  where 
he  had  always  "  put  up  "  when  alone,  and  she  was 
new  to  the  vastness  of  hotel  mirrors  and  chandeliers, 
the  glossy  paint,  the  frescoing,  the  fluted  pillars,  the 
tessellated  marble  pavements  upon  which  she  stepped 
when  she  left  the  Brussels  carpeting  of  the  parlors. 
She  clung  to  Bartley's  arm,  silently  praying  that  she 
might  not  do  anything  to  mortify  him,  and  admiring 
everything  he  did  with  all  her  soul.  He  made  a  halt 
as  they  entered  the  glittering  dining-room,  and  stood 
frowning  till  the  head-waiter  ran  respectfully  up  to 
them,  and  ushered  them  with  sweeping  bows  to  a 
table,  which  they  had  to  themselves.  Bartley  ordered 
their  dinner  with  nonchalant  ease,  beginning  with 
soup  and  going  to  black  coffee  with  dazzling  intelli- 
gence. While  their  waiter  was  gone  with  their  order, 
he  beckoned  with  one  finger  to  another,  and  sent  him 
out  for  a  paper,  which  he  unfolded  and  spread  on  the 
table,  taking  a  toothpick  into  his  mouth,  and  running 
the  sheet  over  with  his  eyes.  "  I  just  want  to  see 
what 's  going  on  to-night,"  he  said,  without  looking 
at  Marcia. 

She  made  a  little  murmur  of  acquiescence  in  het 
throat,  but  she  could  not  speak  for  strangeness.  She 
began  to  steal  little  timid  glances  about,  and  to  notice 
the  people  at  the  other  tables.  In  her  heart  she  did 
not  find  the  ladies  so  very  well  dressed  as  she  had 
expected  the  Boston  ladies  to  be ;  and  there  was  no 
gentleman  there  to  compare  with  Bartley,  either  in 
style  or  looks.  She  let  her  eyes  finally  dwell  on  him, 
wishing  that  he  would  put  his  paper  away  and  say 
something,  but  afraid  to  ask,  lest  it  should  not  be 

11 


162  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

quite  right :  all  the  other  gentlemen  were  reading 
papers.  She  was  feeling  lonesome  and  homesick,  when 
he  suddenly  glanced  at  her  and  said,  "  How  pretty  you 
look,  Marsh !  " 

"Do  I  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  little  grateful  throb, 
while  her  eyes  joyfully  suffused  themselves. 

"  Pretty  as  a  pink,"  he  returned.  "  Gay,  —  is  n't 
it  ? "  he  continued,  with  a  wink  that  took  her  into  his 
confidence  again,  from  which  his  study  of  the  news- 
paper had  seemed  to  exclude  her.  "  I  '11  tell  you 
what  I  'm  going  to  do  :  I  'rri  going  to  take  you  to  the 
Museum  after  dinner,  and  let  you  see  Boucicault  in 
the  '  Colleen  Bawn.' "  He  swept  his  paper  off  the 
table  and  unfolded  his  napkin  in  his  lap,  and,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  began  to  tell  her  about  the  play. 
"  We  can  walk  :  it 's  only  just  round  the  corner,"  he 
said  at  the  end. 

Marcia  crept  into  the  shelter  of  his  talk,  —  he  some- 
times spoke  rather  loud,  —  and  was  submissively 
silent.  When  they  got  into  their  own  room,  — which 
had  gilt  lambrequin  frames,  and  a  chandelier  of  three 
burners,  and  a  marble  mantel,  and  marble-topped 
table  and  washstand,  —  and  Bartley  turned  up  the 
Haring  gas,  she  quite  broke  down,  and  cried  on  his 
breast,  to  make  sure  that  she  had  got  him  all  back 
again. 

"  Why,  Marcia  !  "  he  said.  "  I  know  just  how  you 
feel.  Don't  you  suppose  I  understand  as  well  as  you 
do  that  we  're  a  country  couple  ?  But  I  'm  not  going 
to  give  myself  away ;  and  you  must  n't,  either.  There 
was  n't  a  woman  in  that  room  that  could  compare  with 
you,  —  dress  or  looks  ! " 

"  You  were  splendid, "  she  whispered,  "  and  just 
like  the  rest !  and  that  made  me  feel  somehow  as  if 
I  had  lost  you." 

"  I  know,  —  I  saw  just  how  you  felt ;  but  I  was  n't 
going  to  say  anything  for  fear  you'd  give  way  right 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  163 

there.  Come,  there 's  plenty  of  time  before  the  play 
begins.  I  call  this  nice  !  Old-fashioned,  rather,  in 
the  decorations,"  he  said,  "  but  pretty  good  for  its 
time."  He  had  pulled  up  two  arm-chairs  in  front  of 
the  glowing  grate  of  anthracite  ;  as  he  spoke,  he  cast 
his  eyes  about  the  room,  and  she  followed  his  glance 
obediently.  He  had  kept  her  hand  in  his,  and  now 
he  held  her  slim  finger-tips  in  the  fist  which  he  rested 
on  his  knee.  "  No ;  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Marcia,  if  you 
want  to  get  on  in  a  city,  there  's  no  use  being  afraid 
of  people.  No  use  being  afraid  of  anything,  so  long 
as  we  're  good  to  each  other.  And  you  've  got  to 
believe  in  me  right  along.  Don't  you  let  anything 
get  you  on  the  wrong  track.  I  believe  that  as  long 
as  you  have  faith  in  me,  I  shall  deserve  it ;  and  when 
you  don't  —  " 

"  Oh,  Bartley,  you  know  I  didn't  doubt  you  !  I 
just  got  to  thinking,  and  I  was  a  little  worked  up  \ 
I  suppose  I  'm  excited." 

"  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it ! "  cried  her  husband.  "  Don't 
you  suppose  I  understand  you  ?  " 

They  talked  a  long  time  together,  and  made  each 
other  loving  promises  of  patience.  They  confessed 
their  faults,  and  pledged  each  other  that  they  would 
try  hard  to  overcome  them.  They  wished  to  be  good  ; 
they  both  felt  they  had  much  to  retrieve  ;  but  they  had 
no  concealments,  and  they  knew  that  was  the  best  way 
to  begin  the  future,  of  which  they  did  their  best  to 
conceive  seriously.  Bartley  told  her  his  plans  about 
getting  some  newspaper  work  till  he  could  complete 
his  law  studies.  He  meant  to  settle  down  to  practice 
in  Boston.  "  You  have  to  wait  longer  for  it  than  you 
would  in  a  country  place;  but  when  you  get  it,  it's 
worth  while."  He  asked  Marcia  whether  she  would 
look  up  liis  friend  Halleck  if  she  were  in  his  place ; 
but  he  did  not  give  her  time  to  decide.  "  I  guess  I 
won't  do  it.  Not  just  yet,  at  any  rate.  He  might 


164  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

suppose  that  I  wanted  something  of  him.  I  '11  caft 
on  him  when  I  don't  need  his  help." 

Perhaps,  if  they  had  not  planned  to  go  to  the 
theatre,  they  would  have  staid  where  they  were,  for 
they  were  tired,  and  it  was  very  cosey.  But  when  they 
were  once  in  the  street,  they  were  glad  they  had  come 
out.  Bowdoin  Square  and  Court  Street  and  Tremont 
Bow  were  a  glitter  of  gas-lights,  and  those  shops,  with 
their  placarded  bargains,  dazzled  Marcia. 

"  Is  it  one  of  the  principal  streets  ? "  she  asked 
Bartley. 

He  gave  the  laugh  of  a  veteran  habitud  of  Boston. 
"  Tremont  Eow  ?  No.  Wait  till  I  show  you  Wash- 
ington Street  to-morrow.  There  's  the  Museum,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  the  long  row  of  globed  lights  on 
the  facade  of  the  building.  "  Here  we  are  in  Scollay 
Square.  There 's  Hanover  Street ;  there 's  Cornhill ; 
Court  crooks  down  that  way ;  there 's  Pemberton 
Square." 

His  familiarity  with  these  names  estranged  him  to 
her  again  ;  she  clung  the  closer  to  his  arm,  and  caught 
her  breath  nervously  as  they  turned  in  with  the  crowd 
that  was  climbing  the  stairs  to  the  box-office  of  the 
theatre.  Bartley  left  her  a  moment,  while  he  pushed 
Iiis  way  up  to  the  little  window  and  bought  the 
tickets.  "  First-rate  seats,"  he  said,  coming  back  to 
her,  and  taking  her  hand  under  his  arm  again,  "  and 
a  great  piece  of  luck.  They  were  just  returned  for 
sale  by  the  man  in  front  of  me,  or  I  should  have  had 
to  take  something  'way  up  in  the  gallery.  There  's 
a  regular  jam.  These  are  right  in  the  centre  of  the 
parquet." 

Marcia  did  not  know  what  the  parquet  was ;  sha 
heard  its  name  with  the  certainty  that  but  for  Bartley 
she  should  not  be  equal  to  it.  All  her  village  pride 
was  quelled  ;  she  had  only  enough  self-control  to  act 
upon  Bartley 's  instructions  not  to  give  herself  awav; 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  165 

6y  any  conviction  of  rusticity.  They  passed  in  through 
the  long,  colonnaded  vestibule,  with  its  paintings,  and 
plaster  casts,  and  rows  of  birds  and  animals  in  glass 
cases  on  either  side,  and  she  gave  scarcely  a  glance  at 
any  of  those  objects,  endeared  by  association,  if  not 
by  intrinsic  beauty,  to  the  Boston  play-goer.  Gulli- 
ver, with  the  Liliputians  swarming  upon  him ;  the 
painty-necked  ostriches  and  pelicans ;  the  mummied 
mermaid  under  a  glass  bell ;  the  governors'  portraits ; 
the  stuffed  elephant ;  Washington  crossing  the  Dela- 
ware ;  Cleopatra  applying  the  asp ;  Sir  William 
Pepperell,  at  full  length,  on  canvas ;  and  the  pagan 
months  and  seasons  in  plaster,  —  if  all  these  are, 
indeed,  the  subjects,  —  were  dim  phantasmagoria 
amid  which  she  and  Bartley  moved  scarcely  more  real. 
The  usher,  in  his  dress-coat,  ran  up  the  aisle  to  take 
their  checks,  and  led  them  down  to  their  seats ;  half 
a  dozen  elegant  people  stood  to  let  them  into  their 
places ;  the  theatre  was  filled  with  faces.  At  Port- 
land, where  she  saw  the  "  Lady  of  Lyons,"  with  her 
father,  three-quarters  of  the  house  was  empty. 

Bartley  only  had  time  to  lean  over  and  whisper, 
"  The  place  is  packed  with  Beacon  Street  swells,  —  it 's 
a  regular  field  night,"  —  when  the  bell  tinkled  and  the 
curtain  rose. 

As  the  play  went  on,  the  rich  jacqueminot-red 
flamed  into  her  cheeks,  and  burnt  there  a  steady  blaze 
to  the  end.  The  people  about  her  laughed  and 
clapped,  and  at  times  they  seemed  to  be  crying.  But 
Marcia  sat  through  every  part  as  stoical  as  a  savage, 
making  no  sign,  except  for  the  flaming  color  in  her 
cheeks,  of  interest  or  intelligence.  Bartley  talked  of 
the  play  all  the  way  home,  but  she  said  nothing,  and 
in  their  own  room  he  asked  :  "  Did  n't  you  really  like 
it  ?  Were  you  disappointed  ?  I  have  n't  been  able 
to  get  a  word  out  of  you  about  it.  Did  n't  you  like 
Boucicault  ? "  /  ' 


166  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  I  did  n't  know  which  he  was,"  she  answered,  with 
impassioned  exaltation.  "  I  did  n't  care  for  him.  I 
only  thought  of  that  poor  girl,  and  her  husband  who 
despised  her  —  " 

She  stopped.  Bartley  looked  at  her  a  moment,  and 
then  caught  her  to  him  and  fell  a-laughing  over  her, 
till  it  seemed  as  if  he  never  would  end.  "  And  you 
thought  —  you  thought,"  he  cried,  trying  to  get  his 
breath,  —  "you  thought  you  were  Eily,  and  I  was 
Hardress  Cregan  !  Oh,  I  see,  I  see  ! "  He  went  on 
making  a  mock  and  a  burlesque  of  her  tragical  hallu- 
cination till  she  laughed  with  him  at  last.  When  he 
put  his  hand  up  to  turn  out  the  gas,  he  began  his 
joking  afresh.  "  The  real  thing  for  Hardress  to  do," 
he  said,  fumbling  for  the  key,  "  is  to  llow  it  out. 
That 's  what  Hardress  usually  does  when  he  comes 
up  from  the  rural  districts  with  Eily  on  their  bridal 
tour.  That  finishes  off  Eily,  without  troubling  Dan- 
ny Mann.  The  only  drawback  is  that  it  finishes  off 
Hardress,  too :  they  're  both  found  suffocated  in  the 
morning." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  167 


XIV. 

THE  next  day,  after  breakfast,  while  they  stood 
together  before  the  parlor  fire,  Bartley  proposed  one 
plan  after  another  for  spending  the  day.  Marcia 
rejected  them  all,  with  perfectly  recovered  self-com- 
posure. 

"  Then  what  shall  we  do  ? "  he  asked,  at  last. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  rather  absently. 
She  added,  after  an  interval,  smoothing  the  warm 
front  of  her  dress,  and  putting  her  foot  on  the  fender, 
"  What  did  those  theatre-tickets  cost  ?  " 

"  Two  dollars,"  he  replied  carelessly.     "  Why  ? " 

Marcia  gasped.  "  Two  dollars !  Oh,  Bartley,  we 
could  n't  afford  it !  " 

"  It  seems  we  did." 

"  And  here,  —  how  much  are  we  paying  here  ? " 

"  That  room,  with  fire,"  said  Bartley,  stretching 
himself,  "is  seven  dollars  a  day  —  " 

"  We  must  n't  stay  another  instant !  "  said  Marcia, 
all  a  woman's  terror  of  spending  money  on  anything 
but  dress,  all  a  wife's  conservative  instinct,  rising 
within  her.  "  How  much  have  you  got  left  ? " 

Bartley  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  counted  over 
the  bills  in  it.  "  A  hundred  and  twenty  dollars." 

"  Why,  what  has  become  of  it  all  ?  We  had  a 
hundred  and  sixty  !  " 

"Well,   our  railroad    tickets   were   nineteen,    the 
sleeping-car  was  three,  the  parlor-car  was  three,  the 
theatre  was  two,  the  hack  was  fifty  cents,  and  we  11 
have  to  put  down  the  other  two  and  a  half  to  refresh 
merits." 


168  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

Marcia  listened  in  dismay.  At  the  end  she  drew 
a  long  breath.  "  Well,  we  must  go  away  from  here 
as  soon  as  possible,  —  that  I  know.  We  11  go  out  and 
find  some  boarding-place.  That 's  the  first  thing." 

"  Oh,  now,  Marcia,  you  're  not  going  to  be  so  severe 
as  that,  are  you  ? "  pleaded  Bartley.  "  A  few  dollars, 
more  or  less,  are  not  going  to  keep  us  out  of  the  poor- 
house.  I  just  want  to  stay  here  three  days  :  that  will 
leave  us  a  clean  hundred,  and  we  can  start  fair."  He 
was  half  joking,  but  she  was  wholly  serious. 

"  No,  Bartley  !  Not  another  hour,  —  not  another 
minute !  Come  !  "  She  took  his  arm  and  bent  it  up 
into  a  crook,  where  she  put  her  hand,  and  pulled  him 
toward  the  door. 

"Well,  after  all,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  some  fun 
looking  up  a  room." 

There  was  no  one  else  in  the  parlor ;  in  going  to 
the  door  they  took  some  waltzing  steps  together. 

While  she  dressed  to  go  out,  he  looked  up  places 
where  rooms  were  let  with  or  without  board,  in  the 
newspaper.  "  There  don't  seem  to  be  a  great  many," 
he  said  meditatively,  bending  over  the  open  sheet. 
But  he  cut  out  half  a  dozen  advertisements  with  his 
editorial  scissors,  and  they  started  upon  their  search. 

They  climbed  those  pleasant  old  up-hill  streets 
that  converge  to  the  State  House,  and  looked  into 
the  houses  on  the  quiet  Places  that  stretch  from  one 
thoroughfare  to  another.  They  had  decided  that  they 
would  be  content  with  two  small  rooms,  one  for  a 
chamber,  and  the  other  for  a  parlor,  where  they  could 
have  a  fire.  They  found  exactly  what  they  wanted 
in  the  first  house  where  they  applied,  one  flight  up, 
with  sunny  windows,  looking  down  the  street ;  but  it 
made  Marcia's  blood  run  cold  when  the  landlady  said 
that  the  price  was  thirty  dollars  a  week.  At  another 
place  the  rooms  were  only  twenty  ;  the  position  was 
quite  as  good,  and  the  carpet  and  furniture  prettier. 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  169 

This  was  still  too  dear,  but  it  seemed  comparatively 
reasonable  till  it  appeared  that  this  was  the  price 
without  board. 

"  I  think  we  should  prefer  rooms  with  board, 
should  n't  we  ? "  asked  Bartley,  with  a  sly  look  at 
Marcia. 

The  prices  were  of  all  degrees  of  exorbitance,  and 
they  varied  for  no  reason  from  house  to  house;  one 
landlady  had  been  accustomed  to  take  more  and 
another  less,  but  never  little  enough  for  Marcia,  who 
overruled  Bartley  again  and  again  when  he  wished  to 
close  with  some  small  abatement  of  terms.  She  de- 
clared now  that  they  must  put  up  with  one  room, 
and  they  must  not  care  what  floor  it  was  on.  But 
the  cheapest  room  with  board  was  fourteen  dollars  a 
week,  and  Marcia  had  fixed  her  ideal  at  ten  :  even 
that  was  too  high  for  them. 

"  The  best  way  will  be  to  go  back  to  the  Eevere 
House,  at  seven  dollars  a  day,"  said  Bartley.  He  had 
lately  been  leaving  the  transaction  of  the  business 
entirely  to  Marcia,  who  had  rapidly  acquired  alert- 
ness arid  decision  in  it. 

She  could  not  respond  to  his  joke.  "  What  is  there 
left  ? "  she  asked. 

"  There  is  n't  anything  left,"  he  said.  "  We  've  got 
to  the  end." 

They  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement  and  looked 
up  and  down  the  street,  and  then,  by  a  common  im- 
pulse, they  looked  at  the  house  opposite,  where  a 
placard  in  the  window  advertised,  "Apartments  to 
Let  —  to  Gentlemen  only." 

"  It  would  be  of  no  use  asking  there,"  murmured 
Marcia,  in  sad  abstraction. 

"Well,  let's  go  over  and  try,"  said  her  husband. 
u  They  can't  do  more  than  turn  us  out  of  doors." 

"  I  know  it  won't  be  of  any  use,"  Marcia  sighed,  aa 
people  do  when  they  hope  to  gain  something  by  for- 


170  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

bidding  themselves  hope.  But  she  helplessly  fol- 
lowed,  and  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  door-steps  while 
he  ran  up  and  rang. 

It  was  evidently  the  woman  of  the  house  who  came 
to  the  door  and  shrewdly  scanned  them. 

"  I  see  you  have  apartments  to  let,"  said  Bartley. 

"  Well,  yes,"  admitted  the  woman,  as  if  she  con^ 
sidered  it  useless  to  deny  it,  "  I  have." 

"  I  should  like  to  look  at  them,"  returned  Bartley, 
with  promptness.  "  Come,  Marcia."  And,  reinforced 
by  her,  he  invaded  the  premises  before  the  landlady 
had  tini'3  to  repel  him.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  we  want,'* 
he  continued,  turning  into  the  little  reception-room 
at  the  side  of  the  door,  "  and  if  you  have  n't  got  it, 
there  's  no  need  to  trouble  you.  We  want  a  fair-sized 
room,  anywhere  between  the  cellar-floor  and  the  roof, 
with  a  bed  and  a  stove  and  a  table  in  it,  that  sha'n't 
cost  us  more  than  ten  dollars  a  week,  with  board." 

"  Set  down,"  said  the  landlady,  herself  setting  the 
example  by  sinking  into  the  rocking-chair  behind  her 
and  beginning  to  rock  while  she  made  a  brief  study 
of  the  intruders.  "  Want  it  for  yourselves  ? " 

"Yes  "said  Bartley. 

"  Well,"  returned  the  landlady,  "  I  always  ham 
preferred  single  gentlemen." 

"  I  inferred  as  much  from  a  remark  which  you 
made  in  your  front  window,"  said  Bartley,  indicating 
the  placard. 

The  landlady  smiled.  They  were  certainly  a  very 
pretty-appearing  young  couple,  and  the  gentleman 
was  evidently  up-and-coming.  Mrs.  Nash  liked 
Bartley,  as  most  people  of  her  grade  did,  at  once. 
"  It 's  always  be'n  my  exper'ence,"  she  explained,  with 
the  lazily  rhythmical  drawl  in  which  most  half-bred 
New-Englanders  speak,  "  that  I  seemed  to  get  along 
rather  better  with  gentlemen.  They  give  less  trou- 
ble —  as  a  general  rule,"  she  added,  with  a  glance  at 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  171 

Marcia,  as  if  she  did  not  deny  that  there  were  ex- 
ceptions, and  Marcia  might  be  a  striking  one. 

Bartley  seized  his  advantage.  "Well,  my  wife 
has  n't  been  married  long  enough  to  be  unreasonable. 
I  guess  you  'd  get  along." 

They  both  laughed,  and  Marcia,  blushing,  joined 
them. 

"  Well,  I  thought  when  you  first  come  up  the  steps 
you  had  n't  been  married  —  well,  not  a  great  while/' 
said  the  landlady. 

"No,"  said  Bartley.  "It  seems  a  good  while  to 
my  wife;  but  we  were  only  married  day  before 
yesterday." 

"  The  land  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Nash. 

"  Bartley  ! "  whispered  Marcia,  in  soft  upbraiding. 

"What?  Well,  say  last  week,  then.  We  were 
married  last  week,  and  we  Ve  come  to  Boston  to  seek 
our  fortune." 

His  wit  overjoyed  Mrs.  Nash.  "  You  '11  find  Boston 
an  awful  hard  place  to  get  along,"  she  said,  shaking 
her  head  with  a  warning  smile. 

"  I  should  n't  think  so,  by  the  price  Boston  people 
ask  for  their  rooms,"  returned  Bartley.  "If  I  had 
rooms  to  let,  I  should  get  along  pretty  easily." 

This  again  delighted  the  landlady.  "  I  guess  you 
aint  goin'  to  get  out  of  spirits,  anyway,"  she  said. 
"  Well,"  she  continued,  "  I  have  got  a  room  't  I  guess 
would  suit  you.  Unexpectedly  vacated."  She  seemed 
to  recur  to  the  language  of  an  advertisement  in  these 
words,  which  she  pronounced  as  if  reading  them. 
"  Tt  's  pretty  high  up,"  she  said,  with  another  warning 
shake  of  the  head. 

"  Stairs  to  get  to  it  ? "  asked  Bartley. 

"  Plenty  of  stairs." 

"  Well,  when  a  place  is  pretty  high  up,  I  like  to 
have  plenty  of  stairs  to  get  to  it.  I  guess  we  '11  see  it> 
Marcia."  He  rose. 


172  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  Well,  I  '11  just  go  up  and  see  if  it  's  fit  to  be  seen, 
first,"  said  the  landlady. 

"Oh,  Bartley ! "  said  Marcia,  when  she  had  left 
them  alone,  "  how  could  you  joke  so  about  our  just 
being  married ! " 

"Well,  I  saw  she  wanted  awfully  to  ask.  And 
anybody  can  tell  by  looking  at  us,  anyway.  We 
can 't  keep  that  to  ourselves,  any  more  than  we  can 
our  greenness.  Besides,  it 's  money  in  our  pockets ; 
she  '11  take  something,  off  our  board  for  it,  you  '11  see. 
Now,  will  you  manage  the  bargaining  from  this  on  ? 
I  stepped  forward  because  the  rooms  were  for  gentle- 
men only." 

"  I  guess  I  'd  better,"  said  Marcia. 

"  All  right ;  then  I  '11  take  a  back  seat  from  this  out." 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  it  won't  be  too  much  ! "  sighed  the 
young  wife.  "  I  'm  so  tired,  looking." 

"  You  can  come  right  along  up,"  the  landlady  called 
down  through  the  oval  spire  formed  by  the  ascend- 
ing hand-rail  of  the  stairs. 

They  found  her  in  a  broad,  low  room,  whose 
ceiling  sloped  with  the  roof,  and  had  the  pleasant 
irregularity  of  the  angles  and  recessions  of  two  dormer 
windows.  The  room  was  clean  and  cosey ;  there  was 
a  table,  and  a  stove  that  could  be  used  open  or  shut ; 
Marcia  squeezed  Hartley's  arm  to  signify  that  it  would 
do  perfectly  —  if  only  the  price  would  suit. 

The  landlady  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and 
lectured :  "  Now,  there !  I  get  five  dollars  a  week 
for  this  room ;  and  I  gen'ly  let  it  to  two  gentlemen. 
It 's  just  been  vacated  by  two  gentlemen  unexpectedly ; 
and  it 's  hard  to  get  gentlemen  at  this  time  the  year 
and  that 's  the  reason  I  thought  of  takin'  you.  As  1 
say,  I  don't  much  like  ladies  for  inmates,  and  so  I  put 
in  the  window  '  for  gentlemen  only.'  But  it 's  no  use 
bein'  too  particular;  I  can't  have  the  room  layin' 
smpty  on  my  hands.  If  it  suits  you,  you  can  have  it 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  173 

for  four  dollars.  It 's  high  up,  and  there 's  no  use 
tryin'  to  deny  it.  But  there  aint  such  another  view 
as  them  winders  commands  anywheres.  You  can  see 
the  harbor,  and  pretty  much  the  whole  coast." 

"  Anything  extra  for  the  view  ? "  said  Bartley, 
glancing  out. 

"  No,  I  throw  that  in." 

"  Does  the  price  include  gas  and  fire  ?  "  asked  Mar- 
cia, sharpened  as  to  all  details  by  previous  interviews. 

"  It  includes  the  gas,  but  it  don't  include  the  fire/* 
said  the  landlady,  firmly.  "  And  it 's  pretty  low  at 
that,  as  you  Ve  found  out,  I  guess." 

"  Yes,  it  is  low,"  said  Marcia.  "  Bartley,  I  think 
we  'd  better  take  it." 

She  looked  at  him  timidly,  as  if  she  were  afraid  he 
might  not  think  it  good  enough ;  she  did  not  think  it 
good  enough  for  him,  but  she  felt  that  they  must 
make  their  money  go  as  far  as  possible. 

"  All   right  !  "  he  said.     "  Then  it 's  a  bargain." 

"  And  how  much  more  will  the  board  be  ?  " 

" Well,  there,"  the  landlady  said,  with  candor,  "I 
don't  know  as  I  can  meet  your  views.  I  don't  ever 
give  board.  But  there 's  plenty  of  houses  right  on  the 
street  here  where  you  can  get  day-board  from  four 
dollars  a  week  up." 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  sighed  Marcia ;  "and  that  would  make 
it  twelve  dollars  !  " 

"  Why,  the  dear  suz,  child  !  "  exclaimed  the  land- 
lady, "  you  did  n't  expect  to  get  it  for  less  ? " 

"  We  must,"  said  Marcia. 

"  Then  you  '11  have  to  go  to  a  mechanics'  boardin*. 
house." 

"  I  suppose  we  shall,"  she  returned,  dejectedly. 
Bartley  whistled. 

"  Look  here,"  said  the  landlady,  "  aint  you  from 
Down  East,  sorne'eres  ? " 

Marcia  started,  as  if  the  woman  had  recognized 
them.  "  Yes."  she  said. 


174  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Nash,  "  I  'm  from  down 
Maine  way  myself,  and  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  should 
do,  if  I  was  in  your  place.  You  don't  want  much  of 
anything  for  breakfast  or  tea ;  you  can  boil  you  an 
egg  on  the  stove  here,  and  you  can  make  your  own 
tea  or  coffee ;  and  if  I  was  you,  I  'd  go  out  for  my 
dinners  to  an  eatin'-house.  I  heard  some  my  lodgers 
tellin'  how  they  done.  Well,  I  heard  the  very  gentle- 
men that  occupied  this  room  sayin'  how  they  used  to 
go  to  an  eatin'-house,  and  one  'd  order  one  thing,  and 
another  another,  and  then  they  'd  halve  it  between 
'em,  and  make  out  a  first-rate  meal  for  about  a  quarter 
apiece.  Plenty  of  places  now  where  they  give  you 
a  cut  o'  lamb  or  rib-beef  for  a  shillin',  and  they  bring 
you  bread  and  butter  and  potato  with  it ;  an'  it 's 
always  enough  for  two.  That 's  what  they  said.  I 
haint  never  tried  it  myself;  but  as  long  as  you  haint 
got  anybody  but  yourselves  to  care  for,  there  aint  any 
reason  why  you  should  n't." 

They  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Well,"  added  the  landlady  for  a  final  touch,  "  say 
fire.  That  stove  won't  burn  a  great  deal,  anyway." 

"  All  right,"  said  Bartley,  "  we  '11  take  the  room  — 
for  a  month,  at  least." 

Mrs.  Nash  looked  a  little  embarrassed.  If  she  had 
made  some  concession  to  the  liking  she  had  conceived 
for  this  pretty  young  couple,  she  could  not  risk  every- 
thing. "  I  always  have  to  get  the  first  week  in  ad- 
vance—  where  there  ain't  no  reference,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Bartley,  and  he  took  out  his 
pocket-book,  which  he  had  a  boyish  satisfaction  in 
letting  her  see  was  well  filled.  "  Now,  Marcia,"  he 
continued,  looking  at  his  watch,  "  I  '11  just  run  over 
bo  the  hotel,  and  give  up  our  room  before  they  get  v& 
in  for  dinner." 

Marcia  accepted  Mrs.  Nash's  invitation  to   come 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  175 

and  sit  with  her  till  the  chill  was  off  the  room  ;  and 
she  borrowed  a  pen  and  paper  of  her  to  write  home. 
The  note  she  sent  was  brief:  she  was  not  going  to 
seem  to  ask  anything  of  her  father.  But  she  was 
going  to  do  what  was  right ;  she  told  him  where  she 
was,  and  she  sent  her  love  to  her  mother.  She  would 
not  speak  of  her  things  ;  he  might  send  them  or  not, 
as  he  chose  ;  but  she  knew  he  would.  This  was  the 
spirit  of  her  letter,  and  her  training  had  not  taught 
her  to  soften  and  sweeten  her  phrase ;  but  no  doubt 
the  old  man,  who  was  like  her,  would  understand 
that  she  felt  no  compunction  for  what  she  had  done, 
and  that  she  loved  him  though  she  still  defied  him. 

Bartley  did  not  ask  her  what  her  letter  was  when 
she  demanded  a  stamp  of  him  on  his  return ;  but  he 
knew.  He  inquired  of  Mrs.  Nash  where  these  cheap 
eating-houses  were  to  be  found,  and  he  posted  the  let^ 
ter  in  the  first  box  they  came  to,  merely  saying,  "  1 
hope  you  have  n't  been  asking  any  favors,  Marsh  ? " 

"  JSTo,  indeed." 

"  Because  I  could  n't  stand  that." 

Marcia  had  never  dined  in  a  restaurant,  and  she 
was  somewhat  bewildered  by  the  one  into  which  they 
turned.  There  was  a  great  show  of  roast,  and  steak, 
and  fish,  and  game,  and  squash  and  cranberry-pie  in 
the  window,  and  at  the  door  a  tack  was  driven  through 
a  mass  of  bills  of  fare,  two  of  which  Bartley  plucked 
off  as  they  entered,  with  a  knowing  air,  and  then 
threw  on  the  floor  when  he  found  the  same  thing  on 
the  table.  The  table  had  a  marble  top,  and  a  silver- 
plated  castor  in  the  centre.  The  plates  were  laid  with 
a  coarse  red  doily  in  a  cocked  hat  on  each,  and  a  thinly 
plated  knife  and  fork  crossed  beneath  it ;  the  plates 
were  thick  and  heavy  ;  the  handle  as  well  as  the  blade 
of  the  knife  was  metal,  and  silvered.  Besides  the 
castor,  there  was  a  bottle  of  Leicestershire  sauce  on 
the  table,  and  salt  in  what  Marcia  thought  a  pepper- 


176  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

box ;  the  marble  was  of  an  unctuous  translucence  in 
places,  and  showed  the  course  of  the  cleansing  napkin 
on  its  smeared  surface.  The  place  was  hot,  and  full 
of  confused  smells  of  cooking;  all  the  tables  were 
crowded,  so  that  they  found  places  with  difficulty, 
and  pale,  plain  girls,  of  the  Provincial  and  Irish- 
American  type,  in  fashionable  bangs  and  pull-backs, 
went  about  taking  the  orders,  which  they  wailed  out 
toward  a  semicircular  hole  opening  upon  a  counter 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  room;  there  they  received 
the  dishes  ordered,  and  hurried  with  them  to  the  cus- 
tomers, before  whom  they  laid  them  with  a  noisy 
clacking  of  the  heavy  crockery.  A  great  many  of  the 
people  seemed  to  be  taking  hulled  corn  and  milk ; 
baked  beans  formed  another  favorite  dish,  and  squash- 
pie  was  in  large  request.  Marcia  was  not  critical; 
roast  turkey  for  Bartley  and  stewed  chicken  for  her- 
self, with  cranberry-pie  for  both,  seemed  to  her  a  very 
good  and  sufficient  dinner,  and  better  than  they  ought 
to  have  had.  She  asked  Bartley  if  this  were  anything 
like  Parker's;  he  had  always  talked  to  her  about 
Parker's. 

"  Well,  Marcia,"  he  said,  folding  up  his  doily,  which 
does  not  betray  use  like  the  indiscreet  white  napkin, 
"  1 11  just  take  you  round  and  show  you  the  outside  of 
Parker's,  and  some  day  we  11  go  there  and  get  dinner." 

He  not  only  showed  her  Parker's,  but  the  City 
Hall ;  they  walked  down  School  Street,  and  through 
Washington  as  far  as  Boylston  :  and  Bartley  pointed 
out  the  Old  South,  and  brought  Marcia  home  by  the 
Common,  where  they  stopped  to  see  the  boys  coasting 
under  the  care  of  the  police,  between  two  long  lines 
of  spectators. 

"  The  State  House,"  said  Bartley,  with  easy  com- 
mand of  the  facts,  and,  pointing  in  the  several  direc- 
tions ;  "  Beacon  Street ;  Public  Garden  ;  Back  Bay." 

She  came  home  to  Mrs.  Nash  joyfully  admiring 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  177 

the  city,  but  admiring  still  more  her  husband's  mas- 
terly knowledge  of  it. 

Mrs.  Nash  was  one  of  those  people  who  partake 
intimately  of  the  importance  of  the  place  in  which 
they  live ;  to  whom  it  is  sufficient  splendor  and  pros- 
perity to  be  a  Bostonian,  or  New-Yorker,  or  Chicagoan, 
and  who  experience  a  delicious  self-flattery  in  the 
celebration  of  the  municipal  grandeur.  In  his  degree, 
Bartley  was  of  this  sort,  and  he  exchanged  compli- 
ments of  Boston  with  Mrs.  Nash,  till  they  grew  into 
warm  favor  with  each  other. 

After  a  while,  he  said  he  must  go  up-stairs  and  do 
some  writing  ;  and  then  he  casually  dropped  the  fact 
that  he  was  an  editor,  and  that  he  had  come  to  Boston 
to  get  an  engagement  on  a  newspaper;  he  implied 
that  he  had  come  to  take  one. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Nash,  smoothing  the  back  of  the 
cat,  which  she  had  in  her  lap,  "  I  guess  there  ain't 
anything  like  our  Boston  papers.  And  they  say  this 
new  one  —  the  '  Daily  Events  '  —  is  goin'  to  take  the 
lead.  You  acquainted  any  with  our  Boston  editors  ? " 

Bartley  hemmed.  "  Well  —  I  know  the  proprietor 
of  the  Events." 

"  Ah,  yes :  Mr.  Witherby.  Well,  they  say  he  's  got 
the  money.  I  hear  my  lodgers  talkin'  about  that 
paper  consid'able.  I  have  n't  ever  seen  it." 

Bartley  now  went  up-stairs;  he  had  an  idea  in 
his  head.  Marcia  remained  with  Mrs.  Nash  a  few 
moments.  "  He  's  been  in  Boston  before,"  she  said, 
with  proud  satisfaction ;  "  he  visited  here  when  he 
was  in  college." 

"Law,  is  he  college-bred?"  cried  Mrs.  Nash.  "Well, 
I  thought  he  looked  'most  too  wide-awake  for  that. 
He  aint  a  bit  offish.  He  seems  re'l  practical.  What 
you  hurryin'  off  so  for  ? "  she  asked,  as  Marcia  rose, 
and  stood  poised  on  the  threshold,  in  act  to  follow 
her  husband.  "Why  don't  you  set  here  with  me, 

12 


178  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

while  he  's  at  his  writin'  ?  You  '11  just  keep  talkin 
to  him  and  takin'  his  mind  off,  the  whole  while. 
You  stay  here  ! "  she  commanded  hospitably.  "You '!] 
just  be  in  the  way,  up  there." 

This  was  a  novel  conception  to  Marcia,  but  its  good 
sense  struck  her.  "  Well,  I  will,"  she  said.  "  1  '11 
run  up  a  minute  to  leave  my  things,  and  then  I  '11 
come  back." 

She  found  Bartley  dragging  the  table,  on  which  he 
had  already  laid  out  his  writing-materials,  into  a  good 
light,  and  she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  as  if 
they  had  been  a  great  while  parted. 

"  Come  up  to  kiss  me  good  luck  ? "  he  asked,  find- 
ing her  lips. 

"  Yes,  and  to  tell  you  how  splendid  you  are,  going 
right  to  work  this  way,"  she  answered  fondly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  believe  in  losing  time ;  and  I  've  got 
to  strike  while  the  iron's  hot,  if  I'm  going  to  write 
out  that  logging-carnp  business.  I  '11  take  it  over  to 
that  Events  man,  and  hit  him  with  it,  while  it's 
fresh  in  his  mind." 

"  Yes,"  said  Marcia.  "  Are  you  going  to  write  that 
out  ? " 

"  Why,  I  told  you  I  was.  Any  objections  ?  "  He 
did  not  pay  much  attention  to  her,  and  he  asked  his 
question  jokingly,  as  he  went  on  making  his  prepara- 
tions. 

"  It 's  hard  for  me  to  realize  that  people  can  care  for 
such  things.  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  begin  with 
something  else,"  she  suggested,  hanging  up  her  sack 
and  hat  in  the  closet. 

"  No,  that  's  the  very  thing  to  begin  with,"  he 
answered,  carelessly.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 
Want  that  book  to  read  that  I  bought  on  the  cars  ?  " 

"  No,  I  'm  going  down  to  sit  with  Mrs.  Nash  while 
you  're  writing." 

"  Well,  that 's  a  good  idea." 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  179 

"  You  can  call  me  when  you  Ve  done." 

"  Done  !  "  cried  Bartley.  "  I  sha'n't  be  done  till 
this  time  to-morrow.  I  'in  going  to  make  a  lot  about 
it." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  his  wife.  "  Well,  I  suppose  the  more 
there  is,  the  more  you  will  get  for  it.  Shall  you  put 
iu.  about  those  people  coming  to  see  the  camp? " 

"Yes,  I  think  I  can  work  that  in  so  that  old 
Witherby  will  like  it.  Something  about  a  distin- 
guished Boston  newspaper  proprietor  and  his  refined 
and  elegant  ladies,  as  a  sort  of  contrast  to  the  rude 
lii'e  of  the  loggers." 

"  I  thought  you  did  n't  admire  them  a  great  deal." 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  much.     But  I  can  work  them  up." 

Marcia  was  quite  ready  to  go  ;  Bartley  had  seated 
himself  at  his  table,  but  she  still  hovered  about, 
''j^nd  are  you  —  shall  you  put  that  Montreal  woman 
iu?" 

"  Yes,  get  it  all  in.     She  '11  work  up  first-rate." 

Marcia  was  silent.  Then,  "  I  should  n't  think 
you  'd  put  her  in,"  she  said,  "  if  she  was  so  silly  and 
disagreeable." 

Bartley  turned  around,  and  saw  the  look  on  her 
face  that  he  could  not  mistake.  He  rose  and  took 
her  by  the  chin.  "  Look  here,  Marsh ! "  he  said,  "  did 
n't  you  promise  me  you  'd  stop  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  while  the  color  flamed  into 
her  cheeks. 

"  And  will  you  ? " 

"I  did  try  —  " 

He  looked  sharply  into  her  eyes.  "  Confound  the 
Montreal  woman  !  I  won't  put  in  a  word  about 
her.  There!"  He  kissed  Marcia,  and  held  her  in 
his  arms  and  soothed  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  jeal- 
ous child. 

"  Oh,  Bartley  !  Oh,  Bartley  ! "  she  cried.  "  I  love 
you  so  ' " 


180  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  I  think  it 's  a  remark  you  made  before,"  he  said, 
and,  with  a  final  kiss  and  laugh,  he  pushed  her  out 
of  the  door;  and  she  ran  down  stairs  to  Mrs.  Nash 
again. 

"  Your  husband  ever  write  poetry,  any  ?  "  inquired 
the  landlady. 

"  No,"  returned  Marcia ;  "  he  used  to  in  college, 
but  he  says  it  don't  pay." 

"  One  my  lodgers  —  well,  she  was  a  lady ;  you 
can't  seem  to  get  gentlemen  oftentimes  in  the  sum- 
mer season,  for  love  or  money,  and  I  was  puttin'  up 
with  her,  —  breakin'  joints,  as  you  may  say,  for  the 
time  bein'  —  she  wrote  poetry ;  'n'  I  guess  she  found 
it  pretty  poor  pickin'.  Used  to  write  for  the  weekly 
papers,  she  said,  'n'  the  child'n's  magazines.  Well, 
she  could  n't  get  more  'n  a  doll'  or  two,  'n'  I  do'  know 
but  what  less,  for  a  piece  as  long  as  that."  Mrs.  Nash 
held  her  hands  about  a  foot  apart.  "  Used  to  show 
'em  to  me,  and  tell  me  about  'em.  I  declare  I  used 
to  pity  her.  I  used  to  tell  her  I  ruther  break  stone 
for  my  livin'." 

Marcia  sat  talking  more  than  an  hour  to  Mrs.  Nash, 
informing  herself  upon  the  history  of  Mrs.  Nash's  past 
and  present  lodgers,  and  about  the  ways  of  the  city- 
and  the  prices  of  provisions  and  dress-goods.  Thp 
dearness  of  everything  alarmed  and  even  shocked 
her;  but  she  came  back  to  her  faith  in  Bartley's 
ability  to  meet  and  overcome  all  difficulties.  She 
grew  drowsy  in  the  close  air  which  Mrs.  Nash  loved, 
after  all  her  fatigues  and  excitements,  and  she  said 
she  guessed  she  would  go  up  and  see  how  Bartley 
was  getting  on.  But  when  she  stole  into  the  room 
and  saw  him  busily  writing,  she  said,  "  Now  I  won't 
speak  a  word,  Bartley,"  and  coiled  herself  down  undei 
a  shawl  on  the  bed,  near  enough  to  put  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder  if  she  wished,  and  fell  asleep. 


MODERN  INSTANCE.  181 


XV. 


IT  took  Bartley  two  days  to  write  out  his  account 
of  the  logging-camp.  He  worked  it  up  to  the  best  of 
his  ability,  giving  all  the  facts  that  he  had  got  out 
of  Kinney,  and  relieving  these  with  what  he  con* 
sidered  picturesque  touches.  He  had  the  newspaper 
instinct,  and  he  divined  that  his  readers  would  not 
care  for  his  picturesqueness  without  his  facts.  He 
therefore  subordinated  this,  and  he  tried  to  give  his 
description  of  the  loggers  a  politico-economical  in- 
terest, dwelling  upon  the  variety  of  nationalities 
engaged  in  the  industry,  and  the  changes  it  had 
undergone  in  what  he  called  its  personnel ;  he  en- 
larged upon  its  present  character  and  its  future  de- 
velopment in  relation  to  what  he  styled,  in  a  line  of 
small  capitals,  with  an  early  use  of  the  favorite  news- 
paper possessive, 

COLUMBIA'S  MORIBUND  SHIP-BUILDING. 

And  he  interspersed  his  text  plentifully  with  exclam- 
atory headings  intended  to  catch  the  eye  with  star- 
tling fragments  of  narration  and  statement,  such  as 

THE   PINE-TREE   STATE'S   STORIED   STAPLE 
MORE  THAN  A   MILLION   OF  MONEY 

UNBROKEN  WILDERNESS 
WILD-CATS,  LYNXES,  AND  BEARS 

BITTEN   OFF 

BOTH  LEGS   FROZEN  TO  THE   KNEES 

CANADIAN   SONGS 

JOY   UNCON  FINED 

THE   LAMPLIGHT   ON   THEIR   SWARTHY  FACES. 


182  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

He  spent  a  final  forenoon  in  polishing  his  article 
up,  and  stuffing  it  full  of  telling  points.  But  after 
dinner  on  this  last  day  he  took  leave  of  Marcia  with 
more  trepidation  than  lie  was  willing  to  show,  or  knew 
how  to  conceal.  Her  devout  faith  in  his  success 
seemed  to  unnerve  him,  arid  he  begged  her  not  to 
believe  in  it  so  much. 

He  seized  what  courage  he  had  left  in  both  hands, 
and  found  himself,  after  the  usual  reluctance  of  the 
people  in  the  business  office,  face  to  face  with  Mr. 
Witherby  in  his  private  room.  Mr.  Witherby  had 
lately  dismissed  his  managing  editor  for  his  neglect  of 
the  true  interests  of  the  paper  as  represented  by  the 
counting-room ;  and  was  managing  the  Events  him- 
self. He  sat  before  a  table  strewn  with  newspapers 
and  manuscripts ;  and  as  he  looked  up,  Bartley  saw 
that  he  did  not  recognize  him. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Witherby  ?  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you  the  other  day  in  Maine  —  at 
Mr.  Willett's  logging-camp.  Hubbard  is  my  name ; 
remember  me  as  editor  of  the  Equity  Free  Press." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Witherby,  rising  and  standing 
at  his  desk,  as  a  sort  of  compromise  between  asking 
his  visitor  to  sit  down  and  telling  him  to  go  away. 
He  shook  hands  in  a  loose  way,  and  added :  *  I  pre- 
sume you  would  like  to  exchange.  But  the  fact  is, 
our  list  is  so  large  already,  that  we  can't  extend  it, 
just  now ;  we  can't —  " 

Bartley  smiled.  "  I  don't  want  any  exchange,  Mr. 
Witherby.  I  'm  out  of  the  Free  Press." 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  city  journalist,  with  relief.  He 
added,  in  a  leading  tone  :  "  Then  —  " 

"  I  Ve  come  to  offer  you  an  article,  —  an  account  of 
lumbering  in  our  State.  It 's  a  little  sketch  that  I  Ve 
prepared  from  what  I  saw  in  Mr.  Willett's  camp,  and 
some  facts  and  statistics  I  've  picked  up.  I  thought  it 
might  make  an  attractive  feature  of  your  Sunday 
edition." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  183 

"  The  Events,"  said  Mr.  Witherby,  solemnly, 
*  does  not  publish  a  Sunday  edition  ! " 

"  Of  course  not,"  answered  Bartley,  inwardly  cursing 
his  blunder,  —  "I  mean  your  Saturday  evening  sup- 
plement." He  handed  him  his  manuscript. 

Mr.  Witherby  looked  at  it,  with  the  worry  of  a  dull 
nan  who  has  assumed  unintelligible  duties.  He  had 
let  the  other  papers  "  get  ahead  of  him "  on  several 
important  enterprises  lately,  and  he  would  have  been 
glad  to  retrieve  himself;  but  he  could  not  be  sure 
that  this  was  an  enterprise.  He  began  by  saying  that 
their  last  Saturday  supplement  was  just  out,  and  the 
next  was  full ;  and  he  ended  by  declaring,  with  stu- 
pid pomp,  that  the  Events  preferred  to  send  its  own 
reporters  to  write  up  those  matters.  Then  he  hemmed, 
and  looked  at  Bartley,  and  he  would  really  have  been 
glad  to  have  him  argue  him  out  of  this  position ;  but 
Bartley  could  not  divine  what  was  in  his  mind.  The 
cold  fit,  which  sooner  or  later  comes  to  every  form  of 
authorship,  seized  him.  He  said  awkwardly  he  was 
very  sorry,  and  putting  his  manuscript  back  in  his 
pocket  he  went  out,  feeling  curiously  light-headed,  as 
if  his  rebuff  had  been  a  stunning  blow.  The  affair 
was  so  quickly  over,  that  he  might  well  have  believed 
it  had  not  happened.  But  he  was  sickeningly  dis- 
appointed ;  he  had  counted  upon  the  sale  of  his  article 
to  the  Events  ;  his  hope  had  been  founded  upon  actual 
knowledge  of  the  proprietor's  intention;  and  although 
he  had  rebuked  Marcia's  overweening  confidence,  he 
had  expected  that  Witherby  would  jump  at  it.  But 
Witherby  had  not  even  looked  at  it. 

Bartley  walked  a  long  time  in  the  cold  winter  sun- 
shine. He  would  have  liked  to  go  back  to  his  lodg- 
ing, and  hide  his  face  in  Marcia's  hands,  and  let  her 
pity  him,  but  he  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  her 
disappointment,  and  he  kept  walking.  At  last  he 
regained  courage  enough  to  go  to  the  editor  of  the 


184  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

paper  for  which  he  used  to  correspond  in  the  summer, 
and  which  had  always  printed  his  letters.  This  editor 
was  busy,  too,  but  he  apparently  felt  some  obligations 
to  civility  with  Bartley;  and  though  he  kept  glancing 
over  his  exchanges  as  they  talked,  he  now  and  then 
glanced  at  Bartley  also.  He  said  that  he  should  be 
glad  to  print  the  sketch,  but  that  they  never  paid  for 
outside  material,  and  he  advised  Bartley  to  go  with 
it  to  the  Events  or  to  the  Daily  Chronicle- Abstract ; 
the  Abstract  and  the  Brief  Chronicle  had  lately  con- 
solidated, and  they  were  showing  a  good  deal  of  en- 
terprise. Bartley  said  nothing  to  betray  that  he 
had  already  been  at  the  Events  office,  and  upon  this 
friendly  editor's  invitation  to  drop  in  again  some  time 
he  went  away  considerably  re-inspirited. 

"  If  you  should  happen  to  go  to  the  Chronicle- 
Abstract  folks,"  the  editor  called  after  him,  "  you  can 
tell  them  I  suggested  your  coming." 

The  managing  editor  of  the  Chronicle- Abstract 
was  reading  a  manuscript,  and  he  did  not  desist  from 
his  work  on  Bartley's  appearance,  which  he  gave  no 
sign  of  welcoming.  But  he  had  a  whimsical,  shrewd, 
kind  face,  and  Bartley  felt  that  he  should  get  on  with 
him,  though  he  did  not  rise,  and  though  he  let  Bart- 
ley stand. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  Lumbering,  hey  ?  Well,  there  'a 
some  interest  in  that,  just  now,  on  account  of  thi,» 
talk  about  the  decay  of  our  shipbuilding  interests- 
Anything  on  that  point  ? " 

"  That 's  the  very  point  I  touch  on  first,"  said 
Bartley. 

The  editor  stopped  turning  over  his  manuscript. 
"  Let 's  see,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  for  Bart- 
ley's  article.  He  looked  at  the  first  head-line,  "What 
I  Know  about  Logging,"  and  smiled.  "  Old,  but 
good."  Then  he  glanced  at  the  other  headings,  and 
ran  his  eye  down  the  long  strips  on  which  Bartlep 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  185 

had  written ;  nibbled  at  the  text  here  and  there  a 
little ;  returned  to  the  first  paragraph,  and  read  that 
through;  looked  back  at  something  else,  and  then 
read  the  close. 

'•  I  guess  you  can  leave  it,"  he  said,  laying  the 
manuscript  on  the  table. 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  said  Bartley,  with  equal  cool- 
ness, gathering  it  up. 

The  editor  looked  fairly  at  him  for  the  first  time, 
and  smiled.  Evidently  he  liked  this.  "  What 's  the 
reason  ?  Any  particular  hurry  ?  " 

"  I  happen  to  know  that  the  Events  is  going  to 
send  a  man  down  East  to  write  up  this  very  subject. 
And  I  don't  propose  to  leave  this  article  here  till  they 
steal  rny  thunder,  and  then  have  it  thrown  back  on 
my  hands  not  worth  the  paper  it 's  written  on." 

The  editor  tilted  himself  back  in  his  chair  and 
braced  his  knees  against  his  table.  "  Well,  I  guess 
you  're  right,"  he  said.  "  What  do  you  want  for 
it?" 

This  was  a  terrible  question.  Bartley  knew  noth- 
ing about  the  prices  that  city  papers  paid  ;  he  feared 
to  ask  too  much,  but  he  also  feared  to  cheapen  his 
wares  by  asking  too  little.  "  Twenty-five  dollars,"  he 
said,  huskily. 

"  Let 's  look  at  it,"  said  the  editor,  reaching  out  his 
hand  for  the  manuscript  again.  "  Sit  down."  He 
pushed  a  chair  toward  Bartley  with  his  foot,  having 
first  swept  a  pile  of  newspapers  from  it  to  the  floor. 
He  now  read  the  article  more  fully,  and  then  looked 
up  at  Bartley,  who  sat  still,  trying  to  hide  his  anxiety. 
"  You  're  not  quite  a  new  hand  at  the  bellows,  are 
you  ? " 

"  I  Ve  edited  a  country  paper." 

"  Yes  ?     Where  ? " 

"  Down  in  Maine/ 

The  editoi  bent  forward  and  took  out  a  long,  nar- 


186  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

row  blank-book.  "  I  guess  we  shall  want  your  article 
What  name  ? " 

"  Bartley  J.  Hubbard."  It  sounded  in  his  ears  like 
some  other  name. 

"  Going  to  be  in  Boston  some  time  ?  " 

"  All  the  time,"  said  Bartley,  struggling  to  appear 
nonchalant.  The  revulsion  from  the  despair  into 
which  he  had  fallen  after  his  interview  with  Witherby 
was  still  very  great.  The  order  on  the  counting-room 
which  the  editor  had  given  him  shook  in  his  hand. 
He  saw  his  way  before  him  clearly  now ;  he  wished 
to  propose  some  other  things  that  he  would  like  to 
write  ;  but  he  was  saved  from  this  folly  for  the  time 
by  the  editor's  saying,  in  a  tone  of  dismissal :  "  Better 
come  in  to-morrow  and  see  a  proof.  We  shall  put  you 
into  the  Wednesday  supplement." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Bartley.     "  Good  day." 

The  editor  did  not  hear  him,  or  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  respond  from  behind  the  newspaper 
which  he  had  lifted  up  between  them,  and  Bartley 
went  out.  He  did  not  stop  to  cash  his  order;  he 
made  boyish  haste  to  show  it  to  Marcia,  as  something 
more  authentic  than  the  money  itself,  and  more 
sacred.  As  he  hurried  homeward  he  figured  Marcia's 
ecstasy  in  his  thought.  He  saw  himself  flying  up 
the  stairs  to  their  attic  three  steps  at  a  bound,  and 
bursting  into  the  room,  where  she  sat  eager  and  anx- 
ious, and  flinging  the  order  into  her  lap ;  and  then, 
when  she  had  read  it  with  rapture  at  the  sum,  and 
pride  in  the  smartness  with  which  he  had  managed 
the  whole  affair,  he  saw  himself  catching  her  up  and 
dancing  about  the  floor  with  her.  He  thought  how 
fond  of  her  he  was,  and  he  wondered  that  he  could 
ever  have  been  cold  or  lukewarm. 

She  was  standing  at  the  window  of  Mrs.  Nash's 
little  reception-room  when  he  reached  the  house.  It 
was  not  to  be  as  he  had  planned,  but  he  threw  her  a 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  187 

kiss,  glad  of  the  impatience  which  would  not  let  her 
wait  till  he  could  find  her  in  their  own  room,  and  he 
had  the  precious  order  in  his  hand  to  dazzle  her  eyes 
as  soon  as  he  should  enter.  But,  as  he  sprang  into 
the  hall,  his  foot  struck  against  a  trunk  and  some 
boxes. 

"  Hello  ! "  he  cried.     "  Your  things  have  come ! " 

Marcia  lingered  within  the  door  of  the  reception- 
room  ;  she  seemed  afraid  to  come  out.  "  Yea,"  she 
said,  faintly ;  "  father  brought  them.  He  has  just 
been  here." 

He  seemed  there  still,  and  the  vision  unnerved  her 
as  if  Bartley  and  he  had  been  confronted  there  in 
reality.  Her  husband  had  left  her  hardly  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  when  a  hack  drove  up  to  the  door,  and 
her  father  alighted.  She  let  him  in  herself,  before 
he  could  ring,  and  waited  tremulously  for  what  he 
should  do  or  say.  But  he  merely  took  her  hand,  and, 
stooping  over,  gave  her  the  chary  kiss  with  which  he 
used  to  greet  her  at  home  when  he  returned  from  an 
absence. 

She  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck.    "  Oh,  father!" 

"  Well,  well !  There,  there  ! "  he  said,  and  then  he 
went  into  the  reception-room  with  her;  and  there 
was  nothing  in  his  manner  to  betray  that  anything 
unusual  had  happened  since  they  last  met.  He  kept 
his  hat  on,  as  his  fashion  was,  and  he  kept  on  his 
overcoat,  below  which  the  skirts  of  his  dress-coat 
hung  an  inch  or  two ;  he  looked  old,  and  weary,  and 
shabby. 

"  I  can't  leave  Bartley,  father,"  she  began,  hysteri- 
cally. 

"  I  have  n't  come  to  separate  you  from  your  hus- 
band, Marcia.  What  made  you  think  so  ?  It 's  your 
place  to  stay  with  him." 

"  He 's  out,  now,"  she  answered,  in  an  incoherent 
Hopefulness.  "He's  just  gone.  Will  you  wait  and 
see  him,  father  ? " 


188  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  No,  I  guess  I  can't  wait/'  said  the  old  maa  "  It 
would  n't  do  any  good  for  us  to  meet  now." 

"  Do  you  think  he  coaxed  me  away  ?  He  did  n't 
He  took  pity  on  me,  —  he  forgave  me.  And  I  didn't 
mean  to  deceive  you  when  I  left  home,  father.  But  I 
could  n't  help  trying  to  see  Bartley  again." 

"  I  believe  you,  Marcia.  I  understand.  The  thing 
had  to  be.  Let  me  see  your  marriage  certificate." 

She  ran  up  to  her  room  and  fetched  it. 

Her  father  read  it  carefully.  "  Yes,  that  is  all  right,'* 
he  said,  and  returned  it  to  her.  He  added,  after  an 
absent  pause :  "  I  have  brought  your  things,  Marcia. 
Your  mother  packed  all  she  could  think  of." 

"  How  is  mother  ? "  asked  Marcia,  as  if  this  had 
first  reminded  her  of  her  mother. 

"  She  is  usually  well,"  replied  her  father. 

"Won't  you  —  won't  you  come  up  and  see  our 
room,  father  ? "  Marcia  asked,  after  the  interval  fol- 
lowing this  feint  of  interest  in  her  mother. 

"  No,"  said  the  old  man,  rising  restlessly  from  his 
chair,  and  buttoning  at  his  coat,  which  was  already 
buttoned.  "  I  guess  I  sha'n't  have  time.  I  guess  I 
must  be  going." 

Marcia  put  herself  between  him  and  the  door. 
"  Won't  you  let  me  tell  you  about  it,  father  ? " 

"About  what?" 

"  How  —  I  came  to  go  off  with  Bartley.  I  want 
you  should  know." 

"  I  guess  I  know  all  I  want  to  know  about  it, 
Marcia.  I  accept  the  facts.  I  told  you  how  I  felt. 
What  you  've  done  has  n't  changed  me  toward  you.  I 
understand  you  better  than  you  understand  yourself; 
and  I  can't  say  that  I  'in  surprised.  Now  I  want  you 
should  make  the  best  of  it." 

"  You  don't  forgive  Bartley !  "  she  cried,  passion- 
ately. "  Then  I  don't  want  you  should  forgive  me  I " 

"Where   did  you   pick   up   this   nonsense   about 


A    MODEKN    INSTANCE.  189 

forgiving?"  said  her  father,  knitting  his  shaggy 
brows.  "  A  man  does  this  thing  or  that,  and  the  con- 
sequence follows.  I  could  n't  forgive  Bartley  so  that 
he  could  escape  any  consequence  of  what  he 's  done ; 
and  you  're  not  afraid  I  shall  hurt  him  ?  " 

"  Stay  and  see  him  ! "  she  pleaded.  "  He  is  so 
kind  to  me !  He  works  night  and  day,  and  he  has 
Ijust  gone  out  to  sell  something  he  has  written  for  the 
papers." 

"  I  never  said  he  was  lazy,"  returned  her  father. 
"  Do  you  want  any  money,  Marcia  ? " 

"  No,  we  have  plenty.  And  Bartley  is  earning  it 
all  the  time.  I  wish  you  would  stay  and  see  him !  " 

"  No,  I  'm  glad  he  did  n't  happen  to  be  in,"  said  the 
Squire.  "I  sha'n't  wait  for  him  to  come  back.  It 
would  n't  do  any  good,  just  yet,  Marcia ;  it  would  only 
do  harm.  Bartley  and  I  have  n't  had  time  to  change 
our  minds  about  each  other  yet.  But  I  '11  say  a  good 
word  for  him  to  you.  You  're  his  wife,  and  it 's  your 
part  to  help  him,  not  to  hinder  him.  You  can  make 
him  worse  by  being  a  fool;  but  you  needn't  be  a 
fool.  Don't  worry  him  about  other  women;  don't 
be  jealous.  He 's  your  husband,  now  :  and  the  worst 
thing  you  can  do  is  to  doubt  him." 

"  I  won't,  father,  I  won't,  indeed  !  I  will  be  good, 
and  I  will  try  to  be  sensible.  Oh,  I  wish  Bartley 
could  know  how  you  feel ! " 

" Don't  tell  him  from  me"  said  her  father.  "  And 
don't  keep  making  promises  and  breaking  them.  I  '11 
help  the  man  in  with  your  things." 

He  went  out,  and  came  in  again  with  one  end  of  a 
trunk,  as  if  he  had  been  giving  the  man  a  hand  with 
it  into  the  house  at  home,  and  she  suffered  him  as 
passively  as  she  had  suffered  him  to  do  her  such  ser- 
vices all  her  life.  Then  he  took  her  hand  laxly  in 
his,  and  stooped  down  for  another  chary  kiss.  "  Good 
by,  Marcia." 


190  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  Why,  father !  Are  you  going  to  leave  me  ? "  she 
faltered. 

He  smiled  in  melancholy  irony  at  the  bewilder- 
ment, the  childish  forge  tfulness  of  all  the  circum 
stances,  which  her  words  expressed.     "  Oh,  no  !     I  'm 
going  to  take  you  with  me." 

His  sarcasm  restored  her  to  a  sense  of  what  she  had 
said,  and  she  ruefully  laughed  at  herself  through  her 
tears.  "  What  am  I  talking  about  ?  Give  my  love 
to  mother.  When  will  you  come  again  ? "  she  asked, 
clinging  about  him  almost  in  the  old  playful  way. 

"When  you  want  me,"  said  the  Squire,  freeing 
himself. 

"  1 11  write  !  "  she  cried  after  him,  as  he  went  down 
the  steps  ;  and  if  there  had  been,  at  any  moment,  a  con- 
sciousness of  her  cruelty  to  him  in  her  heart,  she  lost 
it,  when  he  drove  away,  in  her  anxious  waiting  for 
Bartley's  return.  It  seemed  to  her  that,  though  her 
father  had  refused  to  see  him,  his  visit  was  of  happy 
augury  for  future  kindness  between  them,  and  she 
was  proudly  eager  to  tell  Bartley  what  good  advice 
her  father  had  given  her.  But  the  sight  of  her  hus- 
band suddenly  turned  these  thoughts  to  fear.  She 
trembled,  and  all  that  she  could  say  was,  "  I  know 
father  will  be  all  right,  Bartley." 

"  How  ?  "  he  retorted,  savagely.  "  By  the  way  he 
abused  me  to  you  ?  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  's  gone,  —  gone  back." 

"  I  don't  care  where  he 's  gone,  so  he 's  gone.  Did 
he  come  to  take  you  home  with  him  ?  Why  did  n't 
you  go  ?  —  Oh,  Marcia  !  "  The  brutal  words  had  hardly 
escaped  him  when  he  ran  to  her  as  if  he  would  arrest 
them  before  their  sense  should  pierce  her  heart. 

She  thrust  him  back  with  a  stiffly  extended  arm. 
"  Keep  away  !  Don't  touch  me  ! "  She  walked  by 
him  up  the  stairs  without  looking  round  at  him,  and 
he  heard  her  close  their  door  and  lock  it. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  191 


XVI. 

BARTLEY  stood  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  out 
and  wandered  aimlessly  about  till  nightfall.  He 
went  out  shocked  and  frightened  at  what  he  had 
done,  and  ready  for  any  reparation.  But  this  mood 
wore  away,  and  he  came  back  sullenly  determined 
to  let  her  make  the  advances  toward  reconciliation,  if 
there  was  to  be  one.  Her  love  had  already  made 
his  peace,  and  she  met  him  in  the  dimly  lighted  little 
hall  with  a  kiss  of  silent  penitence  and  forgiveness. 
She  had  on  her  hat  and  shawl,  as  if  she  had  been 
waiting  for  him  to  come  and  take  her  out  to  tea ;  and 
on  their  way  to  the  restaurant  she  asked  him  of  his 
adventure  among  the  newspapers.  He  told  her 
briefly,  and  when  they  sat  down  at  their  table  he 
took  out  the  precious  order  and  showed  it  to  her. 
But  its  magic  was  gone  ;  it  was  only  an  order  for 
twenty -five  dollars,  now ;  and  two  hours  ago  it  had 
been  success,  rapture,  a  common  hope  and  a  common 
joy.  They  scarcely  spoke  of  it,  but  talked  soberly  of 
indifferent  things. 

She  could  not  recur  to  her  father's  visit  at  once, 
and  he  would  not  be  the  first  to  mention  it.  He  did 
nothing  to  betray  his  knowledge  of  her  intention,  as 
she  approached  the  subject  through  those  feints  that 
women  use,  and  when  they  stood  again  in  their  little 
attic  room  she  was  obliged  to  be  explicit. 

"  What  hurt  me,  Barfcley,"  she  said,  "  was  that  you 
should  think  for  an  instant  that  I  would  let  father 
*sk  me  to  leave  you,  or  that  he  would  ask  such  a 


192  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

thing.  He  only  came  to  tell  me  to  be  good  to  you, 
and  help  you,  and  trust  you ;  and  not  worry  you 
with  my  silliness  and — and — jealousy.  And  I 
don't  ever  mean  to.  And  I  know  he  will  be  good 
friends  with  you  yet.  He  praised  you  for  working 
so  hard ; "  —  she  pushed  it  a  little  beyond  the  bare 
fact ;  —  "he  always  did  that ;  and  I  know  he 's  only 
waiting  for  a  good  chance  to  make  it  up  with  you." 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  glistening  with  tears,  and  it 
touched  his  peculiar  sense  of  humor  to  find  her 
offering  him  reparation,  when  he  had  felt  himself  so 
outrageously  to  blame ;  but  he  would  not  be  outdone 
in  magnanimity,  if  it  came  to  that. 

"  It 's  all  right,  Marsh.  I  was  a  furious  idiot,  or  I 
should  have  let  you  explain  at  once.  But  you  see 
I  had  only  one  thought  in  my  mind,  and  that  was 
my  luck,  which  I  wanted  to  share  with  you ;  and 
when  your  father  seemed  to  have  come  in  between 
us  again  —  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes  ! "  she  answered.  "  I  understand." 
And  she  clung  to  him  in  the  joy  of  this  perfect  intel- 
ligence, which  she  was  sure  could  never  be  obscured 
again. 

When  Bartley's  article  came  out,  she  read  it  with 
a  fond  admiration  which  all  her  praises  seemed  to 
leave  unsaid.  She  bought  a  scrap-book,  and  pasted 
the  article  into  it,  and  said  that  she  was  going  to 
keep  everything  he  wrote.  "  What  are  you  going  to 
write  the  next  thing  ? "  she  asked. 

"Well,  that's  what  I  don't  know,"  he  answered. 
*  I  can't  find  another  subject  like  that,  so  easily." 

"  Why,  if  people  care  to  read  about  a  logging-camp, 
I  should  think  they  would  read  about  almost  any- 
thing. Nothing  could  be  too  common  for  them. 
You  might  even  write  about  the  trouble  of  getting 
cheap  enough  rooms  in  Boston." 

"  Marcia,"  cried  Bartley,  "  you  're  a  treasure !     I  '11 


A   MODERN    INSTANCE,  193 

write  about  that  very  thing !     I  know  the  Chronicle- 
Abstract  will  be  glad  to  get  it." 

She  thought  he  was  joking,  till  he  came  to  her 
after  a  while  for  some  figures  which  he  did  not  re- 
member. He  had  the  true  newspaper  instinct,  and 
went  to  work  with  a  motive  that  was  as  different 
as  possible  from  the  literary  motive.  He  wrote 
for  the  effect  which  he  was  to  make,  and  not  from 
any  artistic  pleasure  in  the  treatment.  He  did  not 
attempt  to  give  it  form, —  to  imagine  a  young  couple 
like  himself  and  Marcia  coming  down  from  the 
country  to  place  themselves  in  the  city ;  he  made  no 
effort  to  throw  about  it  the  poetry  of  their  ignorance 
and  their  poverty,  or  the  pathetic  humor  of  their  dis- 
may at  the  disproportion  of  the  prices  to  their  means. 
He  set  about  getting  all  the  facts  he  could,  and  he 
priced  a  great  many  lodgings  in  different  parts  of 
the  city;  thea  he  went  to  a  number  of  real-estate 
agents,  and,  giving  himself  out  as  a  reporter  of  the 
Chronicle- Abstract,  he  interviewed  them  as  to  house- 
rents,  past  and  present.  Upon  these  bottom  facts,  as 
he  called  them,  he  based  a  "  spicy "  sketch,  which 
had  also  largely  the  character  of  an  expose.  There  is 
nothing  the  public  enjoys  so  much  as  an  expose ' :  it 
seems  to  be  made  in  the  reader's  own  interest;  it 
somehow  constitutes  him  a  party  to  the  attack  upon 
the  abuse,  and  its  effectiveness  redounds  to  the  credit 
of  all  the  newspaper's  subscribers.  After  a  week's 
stay  in  Boston,  Bartley  was  able  to  assume  the  feel- 
ings of  a  native  who  sees  his  city  falling  into  decay 
through  the  rapacity  of  its  landladies.  In  the  head- 
ing of  ten  or  fifteen  lines  which  he  gave  his  sketch, 
the  greater  number  were  devoted  to  this  feature  of  it ; 
though  the  space  actually  allotted  to  it  in  the  text 
was  comparatively  small.  He  called  his  report 
"  Boston's  Boarding-Houses,"  and  he  spent  a  para- 
graph upon  the  relation  of  boarding-houses  to  civ 

13 


194  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

ilization,  before  detailing  his  own  experience  and 
observation.  This  part  had  many  of  those  strokes  of 
crude  picturesque  ness  and  humor  which  he  knew 
how  to  give,  and  was  really  entertaining :  but  it  was 
when  he  came  to  contrast  the  rates  of  house-rent  and 
the  cost  of  provisions  with  the  landladies' 

"  PERPENDICULAR   PRICES," 

that  Bartley  showed  all  the  virtue  of  a  born  re- 
porter. The  sentences  were  vivid  and  telling;  the 
ensemble  was  very  alarming ;  and  the  conclusion  was 
inevitable,  that,  unless  this  abuse  could  somehow  be 
reached,  we  should  lose  a  large  and  valuable  portion 
of  our  population,  —  especially  those  young  married 
people  of  small  means  with  whom  the  city's  future 
prosperity  so  largely  rested,  and  who  must  drift  away 
to  find  homes  in  rival  communities  if  the  present 
exorbitant  demands  were  maintained. 

As  Bartley  had  foretold,  he  had  not  the  least  trou- 
ble in  selling  this  sketch  to  the  Chronicle- Abstract. 
The  editor  probably  understood  its  essential  cheap- 
ness perfectly  wrell ;  but  he  also  saw  how  thoroughly 
readable  it  was.  He  did  not  grumble  at  the  increased 
price  which  Bartley  put  upon  his  work ;  it  was  still 
very  far  from  dear;  and  he  liked  the  young  Down- 
easter's  enterprise.  He  gave  him  as  cordial  a  wel- 
come as  an  overworked  man  may  venture  to  offer 
when  Bartley  came  in  with  his  copy,  and  he  felt  like 
doing  him  a  pleasure.  Some  things  out  of  the  log- 
ging-camp sketch  had  been  copied,  and  people  had 
spoken  to  the  editor  about  it,  which  was  a  still  better 
sign  that  it  was  a  hit. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come  round  to  our  club  to- 
night ? "  asked  the  editor,  as  he  handed  Bartley  the 
order  for  his  money  across  the  table.  "We  have  a 
bad  dinner,  and  we  try  to  have  a  good  time.  We  're 
all  newspaper  men  together." 


A   MODEKN   INSTANCE.  195 

"Why,  thank  you,"  said  Bartley, "  I  guess  I  should 
like  to  go." 

"  Well,  come  round  at  half-past  five,  and  go  with 
me." 

Bartley  walked  homeward  rather  soberly.  He  had 
meant,  if  he  sold  this  article,  to  make  amends  for  the 
disappointment  they  had  both  suffered  before,  and  to 
have  a  commemorative  supper  with  Marcia  at  Par- 
ker's :  he  had  ignored  a  little  hint  of  hers  about  his 
never  having  taken  her  there  yet,  because  he  was 
waiting  for  this  chance  to  do  it  in  style.  He  resolved 
that,  if  she  did  not  seem  to  like  his  going  to  the  club, 
he  would  go  back  and  withdraw  his  acceptance.  But 
when  he  told  her  he  had  been  invited,  —  he  thought 
he  would  put  the  fact  in  this  tentative  way,  —  she 
said,  "  I  hope  you  accepted  ! " 

"  Would  you  have  liked  me  to  ? "  he  asked  with 
relief. 

"  Why,  of  course  !  It 's  a  great  honor.  You  '11  get 
acquainted  with  all  those  editors,  and  perhaps  some 
of  them  will  want  to  give  you  a  regular  place."  A 
salaried  employment  was  their  common  ideal  of  a 
provision  for  their  future. 

"  Well,  that 's  what  I  was  thinking  myself,"  said 
Bartley. 

"  Go  and  accept  at  once,"  she  pursued. 

"  Oh,  that  is  n't  necessary.  If  I  get  round  there  bv 
half-past  five,  I  can  go,"  he  answered. 

His  lurking  regret  ceased  when  he  came  into 
the  reception-room,  where  the  members  of  the  club 
were  constantly  arriving,  and  putting  off  their  hats 
and  overcoats,  and  then  falling  into  groups  for  talk. 
His  friend  of  the  Chronicle-Abstract  introduced 
him  lavishly,  as  our  American  custom  is.  Bartley 
had  a  little  strangeness,  but  no  bashfulness,  and,  with 
his  essentially  slight  opinion  of  people,  he  was 
promptly  at  his  ease.  These  men  liked  his  hand' 


196  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

some  face,  his  winning  voice,  the  good-fellowship  oi' 
"his  instant  readiness  to  joke  ;  he  could  see  that  they 
liked  him,  and  that  his  friend  Eicker  was  proud  of 
the  impression  he  made  ;  before  the  evening  was  over 
he  kept  himself  with  difficulty  from  patronizing 
Kicker  a  little. 

The  club  has  grown  into  something  much  more 
splendid  and  expensive ;  but  it  was  then  content 
with  a  dinner  certainly  as  bad  as  Eicker  promised,' 
but  fabulously  modest  in  price,  at  an  old-fashioned 
hotel,  whose  site  was  long  ago  devoured  by  a  dry- 
goods  palace.  The  drink  was  commonly  water  or 
beer;  occasionally,  if  a  great  actor  or  other  dis- 
tinguished guest  honored  the  board,  some  spendthrift 
ordered  champagne.  But  no  one  thought  fit  to  go  to 
this  ruinous  extreme  for  Bartley.  Eicker  offered  him 
his  choice  of  beer  or  claret,  and  Bartley  temperately 
preferred  water  to  either ;  he  could  see  that  this 
raised  him  in  Eicker's  esteem. 

No  company  of  men  can  fail  to  have  a  good  time 
at  a  public  dinner,  and  the  good  time  began  at  once 
with  these  journalists,  whose  overworked  week  ended 
in  this  Saturday  evening  jollity.  They  were  mostly 
young  men,  who  found  sufficient  compensation  in  the 
excitement  and  adventure  of  their  underpaid  labors, 
and  in  the  vague  hope  of  advancement ;  there  were 
grizzled  beards  among  them,  for  whom  neither  the 
novelty  nor  the  expectation  continued,  but  who  loved 
the  life  for  its  own  sake,  and  would  hardly  have  ex- 
changed it  for  prosperity.  Here  and  there  was  an 
old  fellow,  for  whom  probably  all  the  illusion  was 
gone  ;  but  he  was  proud  of  his  vocation,  proud  even 
of  the  changes  that  left  him  somewhat  superannuated 
in  his  tastes  and  methods.  None,  indeed,  who  have 
ever  known  it,  can  wholly  forget  the  generous  rage 
with  which  journalism  inspires  its  followers.  To 
each  of  those  young  men,  beginning  the  strangely  fas* 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  197 

cinating  life  as  reporters  and  correspondents,  his  papei 
was  as  dear  as  his  king  once  was  to  a  French  noble ; 
to  serve  it  night  and  day,  to  wear  himself  out  for  its 
sake,  to  merge  himself  in  its  glory,  and  to  live  in  its 
triumphs  without  personal  recognition  from  the  pub- 
lic, was  the  loyal  devotion  which  each  expected  his 
sovereign  newspaper  to  accept  as  its  simple  right. 
They  went  and  came,  with  the  prompt  and  passive 
obedience  of  soldiers,  wherever  they  were  sent,  and 
they  struggled  each  to  "  get  in  ahead "  of  all  the 
others  with  the  individual  zeal  of  heroes.  They  ex- 
panded to  the  utmost  limits  of  occasion,  and  they 
submitted  with  an  anguish  that  was  silent  to  the 
editorial  excision,  compression,  and  mutilation  of 
reports  that  were  vitally  dear  to  them.  What  be- 
comes of  these  ardent  young  spirits,  the  inner  history 
of  journalism  in  any  great  city  might  pathetically 
show ;  but  the  outside  world  knows  them  only  in  the 
fine  frenzy  of  interviewing,  or  of  recording  the  mid- 
night ravages  of  what  they  call  the  devouring  ele- 
ment, or  of  working  up  horrible  murders  or  tragical 
accidents,  or  of  tracking  criminals  who  have  baffled 
all  the  detectives.  Hearing  their  talk  Bartley  began 
to  realize  that  journalism  might  be  a  very  different 
thing  from  what  he  had  imagined  it  in  a  country 
printing-office,  and  that  it  might  not  be  altogether 
wise  to  consider  it  merely  as  a  stepping-stone  to  the 
law. 

With  the  American  eagerness  to  recognize  talent, 
numbers  of  good  fellows  spoke  to  him  about  his  log- 
ging sketch ;  even  those  who  had  not  read  it  seemed 
to  know  about  it  as  a  hit.  They  were  all  delighted  to 
be  able  to  say,  "  Eicker  tells  me  that  you  offered  it  to 
old  Witherby,  and  he  would  n't  look  at  it ! "  He 
found  that  this  fact,  which  he  had  doubtfully  confided 
to  Ricker,  was  not  offensive  to  some  of  the  Events 
people  who  were  there ;  one  of  them  got  him  aside* 


198  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

and  darkly  owned  to  him  that  Witherby  was  doing 
everything  that  any  one  man  could  to  kill  the  Events, 
and  that  in  fact  the  counting-room  was  running  the 
paper. 

All  the  club  united  in  abusing  the  dinner,  which  in 
his  rustic  ignorance  Bartley  had  not  found  so  infa- 
mous; but  they  ate  it  with  perfect  appetite  and 
with  mounting  good  spirits.  The  president  brewed 
punch  in  a  great  bowl  before  him,  and,  rising  with 
a  glass  of  it  in  his  hand,  opened  a  free  parliament  of 
speaking,  story-telling,  and  singing.  Whoever  rec- 
ollected a  song  or  a  story  that  he  liked,  called  upon 
the  owner  of  it  to  sing  it  or  tell  it ;  and  it  appeared 
not  to  matter  how  old  the  fun  or  the  music  was : 
the  company  was  resolved  to  be  happy;  it  roared 
and  clapped  till  the  glasses  rang.  "  You  will  like 
this  song,"  Bartley 's  neighbors  to  right  and  left  of 
him  prophesied ;  or,  "  Just  listen  to  this  story  of 
Mason's,  —  it 's  capital,"  —  as  one  or  another  rose  in 
response  to  a  general  clamor.  When  they  went  back 
to  the  reception-room  they  carried  the  punch-bowl 
with  them,  and  there,  amid  a  thick  cloud  of  smoke, 
two  clever  amateurs  took  their  places  at  the  piano, 
and  sang  and  played  to  their  heart's  content,  while 
the  rest,  glass  in  hand,  talked  and  laughed,  or  listened 
as  they  chose.  Bartley  had  not  been  called  upon, 
but  he  was  burning  to  try  that  song  in  which  he  had 
failed  so  dismally  in  the  logging-camp.  When  the 
pianist  rose  at  last,  he  slipped  down  into  the  chair, 
and,  striking  the  chords  of  the  accompaniment,  he 
gave  his  piece  with  brilliant  audacity.  The  room 
silenced  itself  and  then  burst  into  a  roar  of  applause, 
and  cries  of  "Encore!"  There  could  be  no  doubt  of 
the  success.  "  Look  here,  Kicker,"  said  a  leading  man 
at  the  end  of  the  repetition,  "  your  friend  must  be 
one  of  us  !"  —  and,  rapping  on  the  table,  he  proposed 
Bartley's  name.  In  that  simple  time  the  club  voted 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  199 

viva  voje  on  proposed  members,  and  Bartley  found  him- 
self elected  by  acclamation,  and  in  the-  act  of  paying  over 
his  initiation  fee  to  the  treasurer,  before  he  had  well 
realized  the  honor  done  him.  Everybody  near  him 
shook  his  hand,  and  offered  to  be  of  service  to  him. 
Much  of  this  cordiality  was  merely  collective  good 
feeling;  something  of  it  might  be  justly  attributed 
to  the  punch ;  but  the  greater  part  was  honest.  In 
this  civilization  of  ours,  grotesque  and  unequal  and 
imperfect  as  it  is  in  many  things,  we  are  bound  to- 
gether in  a  brotherly  sympathy  unknown  to  any 
other.  We  new  men  have  all  had  our  hard  rubs, 
but  we  do  not  so  much  remember  them  in  soreness 
or  resentment  as  in  the  wish  to  help  forward  any 
other  who  is  presently  feeling  them.  If  he  will  but 
help  himself  too,  a  hundred  hands  are  stretched  out 
to  him. 

Bartley  had  kept  his  head  clear  of  the  punch,  but 
he  left  the  club  drunk  with  joy  and  pride,  and  so 
impatient  to  be  with  Marcia  and  tell  her  of  his  tri- 
umphs that  he  could  hardly  wait  to  read  the  proof 
of  his  boarding-house  article  which  Eicker  had  put 
in  hand  at  once  for  the  Sunday  edition.  He  found 
Marcia  sitting  up  for  him,  and  she  listened  with  a 
shining  face  while  he  hastily  ran  over  the  most  flat- 
tering facts  of  the  evening.  She  was  not  so  much 
surprised  at  the  honors  done  him  as  he  had  expected  ; 
but  she  was  happier,  and  she  made  him  repeat  it  all 
and  give  her  the  last  details.  He  was  afraid  she 
would  ask  him  what  his  initiation  had  cost ;  but  she 
seemed  to  have  no  idea  that  it  had  cost  anything, 
and  though  it  had  swept  away  a  third  of  the  money 
he  had  received  for  his  sketch,  he  still  resolved  that 
she  should  have  that  supper  at  Parker's. 

"  I  consider  my  future  made,"  he  said  aloud,  at  tha 
end  of  his  swift  cogitation  on  this  point. 


200  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  Oh,  yes  ! "  she  responded  rapturously.  "  Wa 
need  n't  have  a  moment's  anxiety.  But  we  must  be 
very  saving  still  till  you  get  a  place." 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  Bartley. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  201 


xvn. 

DURING  several  months  that  followed,  Bartley'9 
work  consisted  of  interviewing,  of  special  reporting  in 
all  its  branches,  of  correspondence  by  mail  and  tele- 
graph from  points  to  which  he  was  sent ;  his  leisure 
he  spent  in  studying  subjects  which  could  be  treated 
like  that  of  the  boarding-houses.  Marcia  entered 
into  his  affairs  with  the  keen  half-intelligence  whicli 
characterizes  a  woman's  participation  in  business ; 
whatever  could  be  divined,  she  was  quickly  mistress 
of;  she  vividly  sympathized  with  his  difficulties  and 
his  triumphs ;  she  failed  to  follow  him  in  matters  of 
political  detail,  or  of  general  effect ;  she  could  not  be 
dispassionate  or  impartial ;  his  relation  to  any  enter- 
prise was  always  more  important  than  anything  else 
about  it.  On  some  of  his  missions  he  took  her  with 
him,  and  then  they  made  it  a  pleasure  excursion ;  and 
if  they  came  home  late  with  the  material  still  un- 
written, she  helped  him  with  his  notes,  wrote  from 
his  dictation,  and  enabled  him  to  give  a  fuller  report 
than  his  rivals.  She  caught  up  with  amusing  aptness 
the  technical  terms  of  the  profession,  and  was  voluble 
about  getting  in  ahead  of  the  Events  and  the  other 
papers;  and  she  was  indignant  if  any  part  of  his 
report  was  cut  out  or  garbled,  or  any  feature  was 
spoiled. 

He  made  a  "  card "  of  grouping  and  treating  with 
picturesque  freshness  the  spring  openings  of  the  milli- 
ners and  dry-goods  people ;  and  when  he  brought  hia 
article  to  Ricker,  the  editor  ran  it  over,  and  said, 
"  Guess  you  took  your  wife  with  you,  Hubbard." 


202  A  MODERN   INSTANCE 

"Yes,  I  did,"  Bartley  owned.  He  was  always 
proud  of  her  looks,  and  it  flattered  him  that  Ricker 
should  see  the  evidences  of  her  feminine  taste  and 
knowledge  in  his  account  of  the  bonnets  and  dress 
goods.  "  You  don't  suppose  I  could  get  at  all  these 
things  by  inspiration,  do  you  ?" 

Marcia  was  already  known  to  some  of  his  friends 
whom  he  had  introduced  to  her  in  casual  encounters. 
They  were  mostly  unmarried,  or  if  married  they 
lived  at  a  distance,  and  they  did  not  visit  the  Hub-- 
bards at  their  lodgings.  Marcia  was  a  little  shy, 
and  did  not  quite  know  whether  they  ought  to  call 
without  being  asked,  or  whether  she  ought  to  ask 
them ;  besides,  Mrs.  Nash's  reception-room  was  not 
always  at  her  disposal,  and  she  would  not  have 
liked  to  take  them  all  the  way  up  to  her  own  room. 
Her  social  life  was  therefore  confined  to  the  public 
places  where  she  met  these  friends  of  her  husband's. 
They  sometimes  happened  together  at  a  restaurant, 
or  saw  one  another  between  the  acts  at  the  theatre, 
or  on  coming  out  of  a  concert.  Marcia  was  not  so 
much  admired  for  her  conversation  by  her  acquaint- 
ance, as  for  her  beauty  and  her  style ;  a  rustic  reluc- 
tance still  lingered  in  her ;  she  was  thin  and  dry  in 
her  talk  with  any  one  but  Bartley,  and  she  could  not 
help  letting  even  men  perceive  that  she  was  uneasy 
when  they  interested  him  in  matters  foreign  to  her. 

Bartley  did  not  see  why  they  could  not  have  some 
of  these  fellows  up  in  their  room  for  tea ;  but  Marcia 
told  him  it  was  impossible.  In  fact,  although  she 
willingly  lived  this  irregular  life  with  him,  she  was 
at  heart  not  at  all  a  Bohemian.  She  did  not  like 
being  in  lodgings  or  dining  at  restaurants ;  on  their 
horse-car  excursions  into  the  suburbs,  when  the  spring 
opened,  she  was  always  choosing  this  or  that  little 
house  as  the  place  where  she  would  like  to  live,  and 
wondering  if  it  were  within  their  means.  She  said 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  203 

she  would  gladly  do  all  the  work  herself ;  she  hated 
to  be  idle  so  much  as  she  now  must.  The  city's 
novelty  wore  off  for  her  sooner  than  for  him :  the 
concerts,  the  lectures,  the  theatres,  had  already  lost 
their  zest  for  her,  and  she  went  because  he  wished 
her  to  go,  or  in  order  to  be  able  to  help  him  with 
what  he  was  always  writing  about  such  things. 

As  the  spring  advanced,  Bartley  conceived  the 
plan  of  a  local  study,  something  in  the  manner  of  the 
boarding-house  article,  but  on  a  much  vaster  scale : 
he  proposed  to  Ricker  a  timely  series  on  the  easily 
accessible  hot-weather  resorts,  to  be  called  "  Boston's 
Breathing-Places,"  and  to  relate  mainly  to  the  seaside 
hotels  and  their  surroundings.  His  idea  was  encour- 
aged, and  he  took  Marcia  with  him  on  most  of  his 
expeditions  for  its  realization.  These  were  largely 
made  before  the  regular  season  had  well  begun ;  but 
the  boats  were  already  running,  and  the  hotels  were 
open,  and  they  were  treated  with  the  hospitality 
which  a  knowledge  of  Bartley's  mission  must  invoke. 
As  he  said,  it  was  a  matter  of  business,  give  and  take 
on  both  sides,  and  the  landlords  took  more  than  they 
gave  in  any  such  trade. 

On  her  part  Marcia  regarded  dead-heading  as  a  just 
and  legitimate  privilege  of  the  press,  if  not  one  of  its 
chief  attributes  ;  and  these  passes  on  boats  and  trains, 
this  system  of  paying  hotel-bills  by  the  presentation 
of  a  card,  constituted  distinguished  and  honorable 
recognition  from  the  public.  To  her  simple  experi- 
ence, when  Bartley  told  how  magnificently  the  re- 
porters had  been  accommodated,  at  some  civic  or 
commercial  or  professional  banquet,  with  a  table  of 
their  own,  where  they  were  served  with  all  the  wines 
and  courses,  he  seemed  to  have  been  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal guests,  and  her  fear  was  that  his  head  should 
be  turned  by  his  honors.  But  at  the  bottom  of  hei 
heart,  though  she  enjoyed  the  brilliancy  of  Bartley's 


204  A   MODERN  INSTANCE. 

present  life,  she  did  not  think  his  occupation  com- 
parable to  the  law  in  dignity.  Bartley  called  himself 
a  journalist  now,  but  his  newspaper  connection  still 
identified  him  in  her  mind  with  those  country  editors 
of  whom  she  had  always  heard  her  father  speak  with 
such  contempt :  men  dedicated  to  poverty  and  the 
despite  of  all  the  local  notables  who  used  them.  She 
could  not  shake  off  the  old  feeling  of  degradation, 
even  when  she  heard  Bartley  and  some  of  his  fellow- 
journalists  talking  in  their  boastfulest  vein  of  the 
sovereign  character  of  journalism ;  and  she  secretly 
resolved  never  to  relinquish  her  purpose  of  having 
him  a  lawyer.  Till  he  was  fairly  this,  in  regular  and 
prosperous  practice,  she  knew  that  she  should  not 
have  shown  her  father  that  she  was  right  in  marrying 
Bartley. 

In  the  mean  time  their  life  went  ignorantly  on  in 
the  obscure  channels  where  their  isolation  from  soci- 
ety kept  it  longer  than  was  natural.  Three  or  four 
months  after  they  came  to  Boston,  they  were  still 
country  people,  with  scarcely  any  knowledge  of  the 
distinctions  and  differences  so  important  to  the  various 
worlds  of  any  city.  So  far  from  knowing  that  they 
must  not  walk  in  the  Common,  they  used  to  sit  down 
on  a  bench  there,  in  the  pleasant  weather,  and  watch 
the  opening  of  the  spring,  among  the  lovers  whose 
passion  had  a  publicity  that  neither  surprised  not 
shocked  them.  After  they  were  a  little  more  en- 
lightened, they  resorted  to  the  Public  Garden,  where 
they  admired  the  bridge,  and  the  rock-work,  and  the 
statues.  Bartley,  who  was  already  beginning  to  get 
up  a  taste  for  art,  boldly  stopped  and  praised  the 
Venus,  in  the  presence  of  the  gardeners  planting 
tulip-bulbs. 

They  went  sometimes  to  the  Museum  of  Fine  Arts, 
where  they  found  a  pleasure  in  the  worst  things 
which  the  best  never  afterwards  gave  them;  and 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  205 

where  she  became  as  hungry  and  tired  as  if  it  were 
the  Vatican.  They  had  a  pride  in  taking  books  out 
of  the  Public  Library,  where  they  walked  about  on 
tiptoe  with  bated  breath ;  and  they  thought  it  a 
divine  treat  to  hear  the  Great  Organ  play  at  noon. 
As  they  sat  there  in  the  Music  Hall,  and  let  the 
mighty  instrument  bellow  over  their  strong  young 
nerves,  Bartley  whispered  Marcia  the  jokes  he  had 
heard  about  the  organ ;  and  then,  upon  the  wave  of 
aristocratic  sensation  from  this  experience,  they  went 
out  and  dined  at  Copeland's,  or  Weber's,  or  Fera's,  or 
even  at  Parker's:  they  had  long  since  forsaken  the 
humble  restaurant  with  its  doilies  and  its  ponderous 
crockery,  and  they  had  so  mastered  the  art  of  ordering 
that  they  could  manage  a  dinner  as  cheaply  at  these 
finer  places  as  anywhere,  especially  if  Marcia  pre- 
tended riot  to  care  much  for  her  half  of  the  portion, 
and  connived  at  its  transfer  to  Hartley's  plate. 

In  his  hours  of  leisure,  they  were  so  perpetually 
together  that  it  became  a  joke  with  the  men  who 
knew  them  to  say,  when  asked  if  Bartley  were  married, 
"  Very  muck  married."  It  was  not  wholly  their  in- 
separableness  that  gave  the  impression  of  this  extreme 
conjugality  ;  as  I  said,  Marcia's  uneasiness  when  others 
interested  Bartley  in  things  alien  to  her  made  itself 
felt  even  by  these  men.  She  struggled  against  it  be- 
cause she  did  not  wish  to  put  him  to  shame  before 
them,  and  often  with  an  aching  sense  of  desolation  she 
sent  him  off  with  them  to  talk  apart,  or  left  him  with 
them  if  they  met  on  the  street,  and  walked  home  alone, 
rather  than  let  any  one  say  that  she  kept  her  husband 
tied  to  her  apron-strings.  His  club,  after  the  first 
sense  of  its  splendor  and  usefulness  wore  away,  was 
an  ordeal ;  she  had  failed  to  conceal  that  she  thought 
the  initiation  and  annual  fees  extravagant.  She 
knew  no  other  bliss  like  having  Bartley  sit  down  in 
their  own  room  with  her ;  it  did  not  matter  whether 


206  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

they  talked  ;  if  he  were  busy,  she  would  as  lief  sit  and 
sew,  or  sit  and  silently  look  at  him  as  he  wrote.  In 
these  moments  she  liked  to  feign  that  she  had  lost 
him,  that  they  had  never  been  married,  and  then 
come  back  with  a  rush  of  joy  to  the  reality.  But  on 
his  club  nights  she  heroically  sent  him  off,  and  spent 
the  evening  with  Mrs.  Nash.  Sometimes  she  went 
out  by  day  with  the  landlady,  who  had  a  passion 
for  auctions  and  cemeteries,  and  who  led  Marcia  to 
an  intimate  acquaintance  with  such  pleasures.  At 
Mount  Auburn,  Marcia  liked  the  marble  lambs,  and 
the  emblematic  hands  pointing  upward  with  the  dexter 
finger,  and  the  infants  carved  in  stone,  and  the  angels 
with  folded  wings  and  lifted  eyes,  better  than  the  casts 
which  Bartley  said  were  from  the  antique,  in  the 
Museum ;  on  this  side  her  mind  was  as  wholly  dor* 
mant  as  that  of  Mrs.  Nash  herself.  She  always  cam^ 
home  feeling  as  if  she  had  not  seen  Bartley  for  a  year, 
and  fearful  that  something  had  happened  to  him. 

The  hardest  thing  about  their  irregular  life  was 
that  he  must  sometimes  be  gone  two  or  three  days  at 
a  time,  when  he  could  not  take  her  with  him.  Then 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  draw  a  full  breath 
in  his  absence ;  and  once  he  found  her  almost  wild 
on  his  return :  she  had  begun  to  fancy  that  he  was 
never  coming  back  again.  He  laughed  at  her  when 
she  betrayed  her  secret,  but  she  was  not  ashamed;  and 
when  he  asked  her,  "  Well,  what  if  I  had  n't  come 
back  ? "  she  answered  passionately,  "  It  would  n't  have 
made  much  difference  to  me :  I  should  not  have 
lived." 

The  uncertainty  of  his  income  was  another  cause 
of  anguish  to  her.  At  times  he  earned  forty  or  fifty 
dollars  a  week  ;  oftener  he  earned  ten  ;  there  was  now 
and  then  a  week  when  everything  that  he  put  his  hand 
to  failed,  and  he  earned  nothing  at  all.  Then  Marcia 
despaired ;  her  frugality  became  a  mania,  and  the) 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  207 

had  quarrels  about  what  she  called  his  extravagance. 
She  embittered  his  daily  bread  by  blaming  him  foi 
what  he  spent  on  it ;  she  wore  her  oldest  dresses,  and 
would  have  had  him  go  shabby  in  token  of  their  ad- 
versity. Her  economies  were  frantic  child's  play, — 
methodless,  inexperienced,  fitful ;  and  they  were  apt 
to  be  followed  by  remorse  in  which  she  abetted  him 
in  some  wanton  excess. 

The  future  of  any  heroic  action  is  difficult  to  man- 
age ;  and  the  sublime  sacrifice  of  her  pride  and  all  the 
conventional  proprieties  which  Marcia  had  made  in 
giving  herself  to  Bartley  was  inevitably  tried  by  the 
same  sordid  tests  that  every  married  life  is  put  to. 

That  salaried  place  which  he  was  always  seeking 
on  the  staff  of  some  newspaper,  proved  not  so  easy  to 
get  as  he  had  imagined  in  the  flush  of  his  first  suc- 
cesses. Kicker  willingly  included  him  among  the 
Chronicle- Abstract's  own  correspondents  and  special 
reporters ;  and  he  held  the  same  off-and-on  relation 
to  several  other  papers ;  but  he  remained  without  a 
more  definite  position.  He  earned  perhaps  more 
money  than  a  salary  would  have  given  him,  and  in 
their  way  of  living  he  and  Marcia  laid  up  something 
out  of  what  he  earned.  But  it  did  not  seem  to  her 
that  he  exerted  himself  to  get  a  salaried  place ;  she 
was  sure  that,  if  so  many  others  who  could  not  write 
half  so  well  had  places,  he  might  get  one  if  he  only 
kept  trying.  Bartley  laughed  at  these  business-turns 
of  Marcia's  as  he  called  them;  but  sometimes  they 
enraged  him,  and  he  had  days  of  sullen  resentment 
when  he  resisted  all  her  advances  towards  reconcilia- 
tion. But  he  kept  hard  at  work,  and  he  always  owned 
at  last  how  disinterested  her  most  ridiculous  alarm 
had  been. 

Once,  when  they  had  been  talking  as  usual  about 
that  permanent  place  on  some  newspaper,  she  said, 
*  But  I  should  only  want  that  to  be  temporary,  if  you 


208  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

got  it.  I  want  you  should  go  on  with  the  law, 
Bartley.  I  Ve  been  thinking  about  that.  I  don't 
want  you  should  always  be  a  journalist." 

Bartley  smiled.  "  What  could  I  do  for  a  living,  I 
should  like  to  know,  while  I  was  studying  law  ?  " 

"  You  could  do  some  newspaper  work,  —  enough  to 
support  us,  —  while  you  were  studying.  You  said 
when  we  first  came  to  Boston  that  you  should  settle 
c'own  to  the  law." 

"  I  had  n't  got  my  eyes  open,  then.  I  Ve  got  a 
good  deal  longer  row  to  hoe  than  I  supposed,  before 
I  can  settle  down  to  the  law." 

"  Father  said  you  did  n't  need  to  study  but  a  little 
more." 

"  Not  if  I  were  going  into  the  practice  at  Equity. 
But  it's  a  very  different  thing,  I  can  tell  you,  in 
Boston :  I  should  have  to  go  in  for  a  course  in  the 
Harvard  Law  School,  just  for  a  little  start-off." 

Marcia  was  silenced,  but  she  asked,  after  a  moment, 
J;  Then  you  're  going  to  give  up  the  law,  altogether  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  'm  going  to  do ;  I  'm  going  to 
do  the  best  I  can  for  the  present,  and  trust  to  luck. 
1  don't  like  special  reporting,  for  a  finality;  but  I 
shouldn't  like  shystering,  either." 

"  What 's  shystering  ?  "  asked  Marcia. 

"  It 's  pettifogging  in  the  city  courts.  Wait  till  I 
can  get  my  basis.  —  till  I  have  a  fixed  amount  of 
money  for  a  fixed  amount  of  work,  —  and  then  I  '11  talk 
to  you  about  taking  up  the  law  again.  I  'm  willing 
to  do  it  whenever  it  seems  the  right  thing.  I  guess 
I  should  like  it,  though  I  don't  see  why  it's  any 
better  than  journalism,  and  I  don't  believe  it  has  any 
more  prizes." 

"  But  you  Ve  been  a  long  time  trying  to  get  your 
basis  on  a  newspaper,"  she  reasoned.  "  Why  don't  you 
try  to  get  it  in  some  other  way  ?  Why  don't  you  try 
to  get  a  clerk's  place  with  some  lawyer  ? " 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  209 

"  Well,  suppose  I  was  willing  to  starve  along  in 
that  way,  how  should  I  go  about  to  get  such  a  place  ?  " 
demanded  Bartley,  with  impatience. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  that  Mr.  Halleck  you  vis- 
ited here  ?  You  used  to  tell  me  he  was  going  to  be 
a  lawyer.'* 

"  Well,  if  you  remember  so  distinctly  what  I  said 
about  going  into  the  law  when  I  first  came  to  Boston," 
said  her  husband  angrily,  "  perhaps  you  11  remember 
that  I  said  I  should  n't  go  to  Halleck  until  I  did  n't 
need  his  help.  I  shall  not  go  to  him  for  his  help." 

Marcia  gave  way  to  spiteful  tears.  "  It  seems  as  if 
you  were  ashamed  to  let  them  know  that  you  were 
in  town.  Are  you  afraid  I  shall  want  to  get  ac- 
quainted with  them  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  shall  want 
to  go  to  their  parties,  and  disgrace  you  ?  " 

Bartley  took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth,  and  looked 
blackly  at  her.  "  So,  that 's  what  you  've  been  think- 
ing, is  it  ?  " 

She  threw  herself  upon  his  neck.  "  No !  no,  it 
isn't!"  she  cried,  hysterically.  "You  know  that  I 
never  thought  it  till  this  instant;  you  know  I  did  n't 
think  it  at  all ;  I  just  said  it.  My  nerves  are  all 
gone  ;  I  don't  know  what  I  'm  saying  half  the  time, 
and  you  're  as  strict  with  me  as  if  I  were  as  well  as 
ever  !  I  may  as  well  take  off  my  things,  —  I  'm  not 
well  enough  to  go  with  you,  to-day,  Bartley." 

She  had  been  dressing  while  they  talked  for  an 
entertainment  which  Bartley  was  going  to  report  for 
the  Chronicle- Abstract  ;  and  now  she  made  a  feint 
of  wishing  to  remove  her  hat.  He  would  not  let  her. 
He  said  that  if  she  did  not  go,  he  should  not ;  he 
reproached  her  with  not  wishing  to  go  with  him  any 
more  ;  he  coaxed  her  laughingly  and  fondly. 

"  It 's  only  because  I  'm  not  so  strong,  now/'  sh« 
said  in  a  whisper  that  ended  in  a  kiss  on  his  cheek 
"  You  must  walk  very  slowly,  and  not  hurry  me." 

14 


210  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

The  entertainment  was  to  be  given  in  aid  of  tha 
fndigent  Children's  Surf-Bathing  Society,  and  it  was 
at  the  end  of  June,  rather  late  in  the  season.  But 
the  society  itself  was  an  afterthought,  not  conceived 
till  a  great  many  people  had  left  town  on  whose 
assistance  such  a  charity  must  largely  depend. 
Strenuous  appeals  had  been  made,  however :  it  was 
represented  that  ten  thousand  poor  children  could  be 
transported  to  Nantasket  Beach,  and  there,  as  one  of 
the  ladies  on  the  committee  said,  bathed,  clam-baked, 
and  lemonaded  three  times  during  the  summer  at  a 
cost  so  small  that  it  was  a  saving  to  spend  the  money. 
Class  Day  falling  about  the  same  time,  many  exiles 
at  Newport  and  on  the  North  Shore  came  up  and 
down ;  and  the  affair  promised  to  be  one  of  social 
distinction,  if  not  pecuniary  success.  The  entertain- 
ment was  to  be  varied  •  a  distinguished  poet  was  to 
read  an  old  poem  of  his,  and  a  distinguished  poetess 
was  to  read  a  new  poem  of  hers ;  some  professional 
people  were  to  follow  with  comic  singing ;  an  elo- 
cutionist was  to  give  impressions  of  noted  public 
speakers;  and  a  number  of  vocal  and  instrumental 
amateurs  were  to  contribute  their  talent. 

Bartley  had  instructions  from  Packer  to  see  that 
his  report  was  very  full  socially.  "  We  want  some- 
thing lively,  and  at  the  same  time  nice  and  tasteful, 
about  the  whole  thing,  and  I  guess  you  're  the  man 
to  do  it.  Get  Mrs.  Hubbaid  to  go  with  you,  and 
keep  you  from  making  a  fool  of  yourself  about  the 
costumes."  He  gave  Bartley  two  tickets.  "  Mighty 
hard  to  get,  I  can  tell  you,  for  love  or  money, — 
especially  love,"  he  said ;  and  Bartley  made  much  of 
this  difficulty  in  impressing  Marcia's  imagination 
with  the  uncommon  character  of  the  occasion.  She 
had  put  on  a  new  dress  which  she  had  just  finished 
for  herself,  and  which  was  a  marvel  not  only  of  cheap- 
ness, but  of  elegance ;  she  had  plagiarized  the  ide* 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  211 

from  the  costume  of  a  lady  with  whom  she  stopped 
to  look  in  at  a  milliner's  window  where  she  formed 
the  notion  of  her  bonnet.  But  Marcia  had  imagined 
the  things  anew  in  relation  to  herself,  and  made  them 
her  own ;  when  Bartley  first  saw  her  in  them,  though 
he  had  witnessed  their  growth  from  the  germ,  he  said 
ihat  he  was  afraid  of  her,  she  was  so  splendid,  and  he 
did  not  quite  know  whether  he  felt  acquainted. 
When  they  were  seated  at  the  concert,  and  had  time 
to  look  about  them,  he  whispered,  "  Well,  Marsh,  I 
don't  see  anything  here  that  comes  near  you  in  style," 
and  she  flung  a  little  corner  of  her  drapery  out  over 
his  hand  so  that  she  could  squeeze  it :  she  was  quite 
happy  again. 

After  the  concert,  Bartley  left  her  for  a  moment, 
and  went  up  to  a  group  of  the  committee  near  the 
platform,  to  get  some  points  for  his  report.  He  spoke 
to  one  of  the  gentlemen,  note -book  and  pencil  in  hand, 
and  the  gentleman  referred  him  to  one  of  the  ladies 
of  the  committee,  who,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation, 
demanded  in  a  rich  tone  of  injury  and  surprise, "  Why ! 
Is  n't  this  Mr.  Hubbard  ?  "  and,  indignantly  answer- 
ing herself,  "  Of  course  it  is  ! "  gave  her  hand  with  a 
sort  of  dramatic  cordiality,  and  flooded  him  with 
questions:  "When  did  you  come  to  Boston?  Are 
you  at  the  Hallecks'  ?  Did  you  come  —  Or  no,  you  're 
not  Harvard.  You  're  not  living  in  Boston  ?  And 
what  in  the  world  are  you  getting  items  for?  Mr. 
Hubbard,  Mr.  Atherton." 

She  introduced  him  in  a  breathless  climax  to  the 
gentleman  to  whom  he  had  first  spoken,  and  who  had 
listened  to  her  attack  on  Bartley  with  a  smile  which 
he  was  at  no  trouble  to  hide  from  her.  "  Which 
question  are  you  going  to  answer  first,  Mr.  Hub- 
bard ? "  he  asked  quietly,  while  his  eyes  searched 
Bartley's  for  an  instant  with  inquiry  which  was  at 
once  kind  and  keen.  His  face  had  the  distinction 


212  A'  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

which  comes  of  being  clean-shaven  in  our  bearded 
times. 

"  Oh,  the  last,"  said  Bartley.  "  I  'm  reporting  the 
concert  for  the  Chronicle-Abstract,  and  I  want  to 
interview  some  one  in  authority  about  it." 

"  Then  interview  me,  Mr.  Hubbard,"  cried  the 
young  lady.  "I'm  in  authority  about  this  affair, — 
it 's  my  own  invention,  as  the  White  Knight  says,  — 
and  then  I  '11  interview  you  afterwards.  And  you  've 
gone  into  journalism,  like  all  the  Harvard  men  !  So 
glad  it 's  you,  for  you  can  be  a  perfect  godsend  to  the 
cause  if  you  will.  The  entertainment  has  n't  given 
us  all  the  money  we  shall  want,  by  any  means,  and 
we  shall  need  all  the  help  the  press  can  give  us.  Ask 
me  any  questions  you  please,  Mr.  Hubbard:  there 
is  n't  a  soul  here  that  I  would  n't  sacrifice  to  the  last 
personal  particular,  if  the  press  will  only  do  its  duty 
in  return.  You  've  no  idea  how  we  've  been  working 
during  the  last  fortnight  since  this  Old  Man  of  the 
Sea-Bathing  sprang  upon  us.  I  was  sitting  quietly 
at  home,  thinking  of  anything  else  in  the  world,  I 
can  assure  you,  when  the  atrocious  idea  occurred  to 
me."  She  ran  on  to  give  a  full  sketch  of  the  incep- 
tion and  history  of  the  scheme  up  to  the  present 
time.  Suddenly  she  arrested  herself  and  Bartley's 
flying  pencil :  "  Why,  you  're  not  putting  all  that 
nonsense  down  ? " 

"  Certainly  I  am,"  said  Bartley,  while  Mr.  Atherton, 
with  a  laugh,  turned  and  walked  away  to  talk  with 
some  other  ladies.  "  It 's  the  very  thing  I  want.  I 
shall  get  in  ahead  of  all  the  other  papers  on  this ; 
they  have  n't  had  anything  like  it,  yet." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  in  horror.  Then, 
"  Well,  go  on  ;  I  would  do  anything  for  the  cause  !  " 
ehe  cried. 

"  Tell  me  who  's  been  here,  then,"  said  Bartley. 

She  recoiled  a  little.     "  I  don't  like  giving  names." 


A  MODEEN   INSTANCE.  213 

"  But  I  can't  say  who  the  people  were,  unless  you 
do." 

"That's  true,"  said  the  young  lady  thoughtfully. 
She  prided  herself  on  her  thoughtfulness,  which  some- 
times came  before  and  sometimes  after  the  fact. 
"  You  're  not  obliged  to  say  who  told  you  ? " 

"  Of  course  not." 

She  ran  over  a  list  of  historical  and  distinguished 
names,  and  he  slyly  asked  if  this  and  that  lady  were 
not  dressed  so,  and  so,  and  worked  in  the  costumes 
from  her  unconsciously  elaborate  answers;  she  was 
afterwards  astonished  that  he  should  have  known 
what  people  had  on.  Lastly,  he  asked  what  the  com- 
mittee expected  to  do  next,  and  was  enabled  to  enrich 
his  report  with  many  authoritative  expressions  and 
intimations.  The  lady  became  all  zeal  in  these  con- 
fidences to  the  public,  at  last ;  she  told  everything  she 
knew,  and  a  great  deal  that  she  merely  hoped. 

"And  now  come  into  the  committee-room  and 
have  a  cup  of  coffee ;  I  know  you  must  be  faint  with 
all  this  talking,"  she  concluded.  "  I  want  to  ask  you 
something  about  yourself."  She  was  not  older  than 
Bartley,  but  she  addressed  him  with  the  freedom  we 
use  in  encouraging  younger  people. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  coolly ;  "  I  can't,  very  well. 
I  must  go  back  to  my  wife,  and  hurry  up  this  report." 

"  Oh  !  is  Mrs.  Hubbard  here  ? "  asked  the  young 
lady  with  well-controlled  surprise.  "Present  me  to 
her  ! "  she  cried,  with  that  fearlessness  of  social  con- 
sequences for  which  she  was  noted:  she  believed 
there  were  ways  of  getting  rid  of  undesirable  people 
without  treating  them  rudely. 

The  audience  had  got  out  of  the  hall,  and  Marcia 
stood  alone  near  one  of  the  doors  waiting  for  Bartley. 
He  glanced  proudly  toward  her,  and  said,  "  I  shall  be 
very  glad." 

Miss   Kingsbury  drifted  by   his   side   across  the 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

intervening  space,  and  was  ready  to  take  Marcia 
impressively  by  the  hand  when  she  reached  her ;  she 
had  promptly  decided  her  to  be  very  beautiful  and 
elegantly  simple  in  dress,  but  she  found  her  smaller 
than  she  had  looked  at  a  distance.  Miss  Kingsbury 
was  herself  rather  large,  —  sometimes,  she  thought, 
rather  too  large:  certainly  too  large  if  she  had  not 
had  such  perfect  command  of  every  inch  of  herself. 
In  complexion  she  was  richly  blonde,  with  beautiful 
fair  hair  roughed  over  her  forehead,  as  if  by  a  breeze, 
and  apt  to  escape  in  sunny  tendrils  over  the  peachy 
tints  of  her  temples.  Her  features  were  massive 
rather  than  fine ;  and  though  she  thoroughly  admired 
her  chin  and  respected  her  mouth,  she  had  doubts 
about  her  nose,  which  she  frankly  referred  to  friends 
for  solution :  had  it  not  too  much  of  a  knob  at  the 
end  ?  She  seemed  to  tower  over  Marcia  as  she  took 
her  hand  at  Bartley's  introduction,  and  expressed  her 
pleasure  at  meeting  her. 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  need  be  such  a  surprise  to 
find  one's  gentlemen  friends  married,  but  it  always  is, 
somehow.  I  don't  think  Mr.  Hubbard  would  have 
known  me  if  I  had  n't  insisted  upon  his  recognizing 
me ;  I  can't  blame  him :  it 's  three  years  since  we 
met.  Do  you  help  him  with  his  reports  ?  I  know 
you  do  !  You  must  make  him  lenient  to  our  enter- 
tainment, —  the  cause  is  so  good !  How  long  have 
you  been  in  Boston  ?  Though  I  don't  know  why  ] 
should  ask  that,  —  you  may  have  always  been  in 
Boston  !  One  used  to  know  everybody  ;  but  the  place 
is  so  large,  now.  I  should  like  to  come  and  see  you ; 
but  I  'm  going  out  of  town  to-morrow,  for  the  sum- 
mer. I  'm  not  really  here,  now,  except  ex  officio ;  I 
ought  to  have  been  away  weeks  ago,  but  this  Indigent 
Surf-Bathing  has  kept  me.  You've  no  idea  what 
such  an  undertaking  is.  But  you  must  let  me  have 
your  address,  and  as  soon  as  I  get  back  to  town  in 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE,  215 

the  fall,  I  shall  insist  upon  looking  you  up.  Good 
by !  I  must  run  away,  now,  and  leave  you ;  there  are 
a  thousand  things  for  me  to  look  after  yet  to-day. " 
She  took  Marcia  again  by  the  hand,  and  superadded 
some  bows  and  nods  and  smiles  of  parting,  after  she 
released  her,  but  she  did  not  ask  her  to  come  into  the 
committee-room  and  have  some  coffee;  and  Bartley 
took  his  wife's  hand  under  his  arm  and  went  out 
of  the  hall. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  with  a  man's  simple  pleasure  in 
Miss  Kingsbury's  friendliness  to  his  wife,  "  that 's  the 
girl  I  used  to  tell  you  about,  —  the  rich  one  with  the 
money  in  her  own  right,  whom  I  met  at  the  Hallecks'. 
She  seemed  to  think  you  were  about  the  thing,  Marsh  ! 
I  saw  her  eyes  open  as  she  came  up,  and  I  felt 
awfully  proud  of  you ;  you  never  looked  half  so  well. 
But  why  did  n't  you  say  something  ? " 

"She  didn't  give  me  any  chance,"  said  Marcia, 
"  and  I  had  nothing  to  say,  anyway.  I  thought  she 
was  very  disagreeable." 

"  Disagreeable  ! "  repeated  Bartley  in  amaze. 

Miss  Kingsbury  went  back  to  the  committee-room, 
where  one  of  the  amateurs  had  been  lecturing  upon 
her :  "  Clara  Kingsbury  can  say  and  do,  from  the  best 
heart  in  the  world,  more  offensive  things  in  ten  min- 
utes than  malice  could  invent  in  a  week.  Somebody 
ought  to  go  out  and  drag  her  away  from  that  reporter 
by  main  force.  But  I  presume  it 's  too  late  already ; 
she's  had  time  to  destroy  us  all.  You'll  see  that 
there  won't  be  a  shred  left  of  us  in  his  paper  at  any 
rate.  Eeally,  I  wonder  that,  in  a  city  full  of  nervous 
and  exasperated  people  like  Boston,  Clara  Kingsbury 
has  been  suffered  to  live.  She  throws  her  whole  soul 
into  everything  she  undertakes,  and  she  has  gone  so 
en  masse  into  this  Indigent  Bathing,  and  splashed 
about  in  it  so,  that  I  can't  understand  how  we  got 
anybody  to  come  to-day.  Why,  I  have  n't  the  least 


2 1C  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

doubt  that  she's  offered  that  poor  man  a  ticket  tc» 
go  down  to  Nantasket  and  bathe  with  the  other  In- 
digents  ;  she 's  treated  me  as  if  I  ought  to  be  person- 
ally surf-bathed  for  the  last  fortnight ;  and  if  there 's 
any  chance  for  us  left  by  her  tactlessness,  you  may 
be  sure  she  's  gone  at  it  with  her  conscience  and 
simply  swept  it  off  the  face  of  the  eartL" 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  217 


XVIII. 

O\TE  hot  day  in  August,  when  Bartley  had  been 
doing  nothing  for  a  week,  and  Marcia  was  gloomily 
forecasting  the  future  when  they  would  have  to  begin 
living  upon  the  money  they  had  put  into  the  savings 
bank,  she  reverted  to  the  question  of  his  taking  up 
the  law  again.  She  was  apt  to  recur  to  this  in  any 
moment  of  discouragement,  and  she  urged  him  no^w 
to  give  up  his  newspaper  work  with  that  wearisome 
persistence  with  which  women  torment  the  men  they 
love. 

"  My  newspaper  work  seems  to  have  given  me  up, 
my  dear,"  said  Bartley.  "  It 's  like  asking  a  fellow 
not  to  marry  a  girl  that  won't  have  him."  He  laughed 
and  then  whistled ;  and  Marcia  burst  into  fretful, 
futile  tears,  which  he  did  not  attempt  to  assuage. 

They  had  been  all  summer  in  town ;  the  country 
would  have  been  no  change  to  them ;  and  they  knew 
nothing  of  the  seaside  except  the  crowded,  noisy, 
expensive  resorts  near  the  city.  Bartley  wished  her 
to  go  to  one  of  these  for  a  week  or  two,  at  any  rate, 
but  she  would  not ;  and  in  fact  neither  of  them  had 
the  born  citizen's  conception  of  the  value  of  a  sum- 
mer vacation.  But  they  had  found  their  attic  in 
tolerable ;  and,  the  single  gentlemen  having  all  given 
up  their  rooms  by  this  time,  Mrs.  Nash  let  Marcia 
have  one  lower  down,  where  they  sat  looking  out  on 
the  hot  street. 

"Well,"  cried  Marcia  at  last,  "you  don't  care  for 
my  feelings,  or  you  would  take  up  the  law  again." 


318  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

Her  husband  rose  with  a  sigh  that  was  half  a 
curse,  and  went  out.  After  what  she  had  said,  he 
would  not  give  her  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  what 
he  meant  to  do ;  but  he  had  it  in  his  head  to  go  to 
that  Mr.  Atherton  to  whom  Miss  Kingsbury  had 
introduced  him,  and  ask  his  advice ;  he  had  found 
out  that  Mr.  Atherton  was  a  lawyer,  and  he  believed 
that  he  would  tell  him  what  to  do.  He  could  at  least 
give  him  some  authoritative  discouragement  which 
he  might  use  in  these  discussions  with  Marcia. 

Mr.  Atherton  had  his  office  in  the  Events  building, 
and  Bartley  was  on  his  way  thither  when  he  met 
Eicker. 

"Seen  Witherby?"  asked  his  friend.  "He  was 
round  looking  for  you." 

"What  does  Witherby  want  with  me?"  asked 
Bartley,  with  a  certain  resentment. 

"Wants  to  give  you  the  managing-editorship  of 
the  Events,"  said  Eicker,  jocosely. 

"  Pshaw  !  Well,  he  knows  where  to  find  me,  if  he 
wants  me  very  badly." 

"  Perhaps  he  does  n't,"  suggested  Bicker.  "  In  that 
case,  you  'd  better  look  him  up." 

"  Why,  you  don't  advise  —  " 

"  Oh,  /  don't  advise  anything  !  But  if  lie  can  let 
bygones  be  bygones,  I  guess  you  can  afford  to !  I 
don't  know  just  what  he  wants  with  you,  but  if  he 
offers  you  anything  like  a  basis,  you  'd  better  take  it." 

Bartley's  basis  had  come  to  be  a  sort  of  by-word 
between  them ;  Eicker  usually  met  him  with  some 
such  demand  as,  "  Well,  what  about  the  basis  ? " 
or,  "  How  's  your  poor  basis  ? "  Bartley's  ardor  for  a 
salaried  position  amused  him,  and  he  often  tried  to 
argue  him  out  of  it.  "  You  're  much  better  off  as  a 
free  lance.  You  make  as  much  money  as  most  of 
the  fellows  in  places,  and  you  lead  a  pleasanter  life. 
If  you  were  on  any  one  paper,  you  'd  have  to  be  on 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  219 

duty  about  fifteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four; 
you  'd  be  out  every  night  till  three  or  four  o'clock ; 
you  'd  have  to  do  fires,  and  murders,  and  all  sorts  of 
police  business  ;  and  now  you  work  mostly  on  fancy 
jobs,  —  something  you  suggest  yourself,  or  something 
you  're  specially  asked  to  do.  That 's  a  kind  of  a 
compliment,  and  it  gives  you  scope." 

Nevertheless,  if  Bartley  had  his  heart  set  upon  a 
basis,  Ricker  wanted  him  to  have  it.  "  Of  course/' 
he  said,  "  I  was  only  joking  about  the  basis.  But  if 
Witherby  should  have  something  permanent  to  offer, 
don't  quarrel  with  your  bread  and  butter,  and  don't 
hold  yourself  too  cheap.  Witherby 's  going  to  get  all 
he  can,  for  as  little  as  he  can,  every  time." 

Ricker  was  a  newspaper  man  in  every  breath.  His 
great  interest  in  life  was  the  Chronicle-Abstract, 
which  paid  him  poorly  and  worked  him  hard.  To  get 
in  ahead  of  the  other  papers  was  the  object  for  which 
he  toiled  with  unremitting  zeal ;  but  after  that  he 
liked  to  see  a  good  fellow  prosper,  and  he  had  for 
Bartley  that  feeling  of  coniradery  which  comes  out 
among  journalists  when  their  rivalries  are  off.  He 
would  hate  to  lose  Bartley  from  the  Chronicle- 
Abstract;  if  Witherby  meant  business,  Bartley  and 
he  might  be  excoriating  each  other  before  a  week 
passed  in  sarcastic  references  to  "  our  esteemed  con- 
temporary of  the  Events,"  and  "  our  esteemed  contem- 
porary of  the  Chronicle- Abstract ";  but  he  heartily 
wished  him  luck,  and  hoped  it  might  be  some  sort 
of  inside  work. 

When  Ricker  left  him  Bartley  hesitated.  He  was 
half  minded  to  go  home  and  wait  for  Witherby  to 
look  him  up,  as  the  most  dignified  and  perhaps  the 
most  prudent  course.  But  he  was  curious  and  im- 
patient, and  he  was  afraid  of  letting  the  chance, 
whatever  it  might  be,  slip  through  his  fingers.  He 
suddenly  resolved  upon  a  little  ruse,  which  would 


220  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

still  oblige  Witherby  to  make  the  advance,  and  yet 
would  risk  nothing  by  delay.  He  mounted  to  Wither- 
by's  room  in  the  Events  building,  and  pushed  open 
the  door.  Then  he  drew  back,  embarrassed,  as  if  he 
had  made  a  mistake.  "  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  is  n't 
Mr.  Atherton's  office  on  this  floor  ? " 

Witherby  looked  up  from  the  papers  on  his  desk, 
and  cleared  his  throat.  When  he  overreached  him- 
self he  was  apt  to  hold  any  party  to  the  transaction 
accountable  for  his  error.  Ever  since  he  refused 
Bartley's  paper  on  the  logging-camp,  he  had  accused 
him  in  his  heart  of  fraud  because  he  had  sold  the 
rejected  sketch  to  another  paper,  and  anticipated 
Witherby 's  tardy  enterprise  in  the  same  direction. 
Each  little  success  that  Bartley  made  added  to 
Witherby 's  dislike  ;  and  whilst  Bartley  had  written 
for  all  the  other  papers,  he  had  never  got  any  work 
from  the  Events.  Witherby  had  the  guilty  sense 
of  having  hated  him  as  he  looked  up,  and  Bartley 
on  his  part  was  uneasily  sensible  of  some  mocking 
paragraphs  of  a  more  or  less  personal  cast,  which 
he  had  written  in  the  Chronicle- Abstract,  about  the 
enterprise  of  the  Events. 

"  Mr.  Atherton  is  on  the  floor  above,"  said  Wither- 
by.  "  But  I  'm  very  glad  you  happened  to  look  in, 
Mr.  Hubbard.  I  —  I  was  just  thinking  about  you. 
Ah  —  wont  you  take  a  chair  ? " 

"  Thanks,"  said  Bartley,  non-committally ;  but  he 
sat  down  in  the  chair  which  the  other  rose  to  offer  him. 

Witherby  fumbled  about  among  the  things  on  his 
desk  before  he  resumed  his  own  seat.  "  I  hope  you 
have  been  well  since  I  saw  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  'm  always  well.  How  have  you  been  ? " 
Bartley  wondered  whither  this  exchange  of  civilities 
tended ;  but  he  believed  he  could  keep  it  up  as  long 
as  old  Witherby  could. 

"  Why,  I  have  not  been  very  well,"  said  Witherby, 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  221 

getting  into  his  chair,  and  taking  up  a  paper-weight 
to  help  him  in  talk.  "The  fact  is,  I  find  that  I 
have  been  working  too  hard.  I  have  undertaken  to 
manage  the  editorial  department  of  the  Events  in 
addition  to  looking  after  its  business,  and  the  care 
has  been  too  great.  It  has  told  upon  me.  I  flatter 
myself  that  I  have  not  allowed  either  department  to 
suffer  —  " 

He  referred  this  point  so  directly  to  him,  that 
Bartley  made  a  murmur  of  assent,  and  Witherby 
resumed. 

"  But  the  care  has  told  upon  me.  I  am  not  so  well 
as  I  could  wish.  I  need  rest,  and  I  need  help,"  he 
added. 

Bartley  had  by  this  time  made  up  his  mind  that,  if 
Witherby  had  anything  to  say  to  him,  he  should  say 
it  unaided. 

Witherby  put  down  the  paper-weight,  and  gave 
his  attention  for  a  moment  to  a  paper-cutter.  "  I 
don't  know  whether  you  have  heard  that  Mr.  Clayton 
is  going  to  leave  us  ?  " 

"  No,"  Bartley  said,  "  I  had  n't  heard  that." 

"  Yes,  he  is  going  to  leave  us.  Mr.  Clayton  and 
I  have  not  agreed  upon  some  points,  and  we  have 
both  judged  it  best  that  we  should  part."  Witherby 
paused  again,  and  changed  the  positions  of  his  ink- 
stand and  mucilage-bottle.  "  Mr.  Clayton  has  failed 
me,  as  I  may  say,  at  the  last  moment,  and  we  have 
been  compelled  to  part.  I  found  Mr.  Clayton  — 
unpractical." 

He  looked  again  at  Bartley,  who  said,  "  Yes  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  found  Mr.  Clayton  so  much  at  variance 
in  his  views  with  —  with  my  own  views  —  that  1 
could  do  nothing  with  him.  He  has  used  language 
to  me  which  I  am  sure  he  will  regret.  But  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there ;  he  is  going.  I  have  had  my 
eye  on  you,  Mr.  Hubbard,  ever  since  you  came  to 


222  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

Boston,  and  have  watched  your  career  with  interest 
But  I  thought  of  Mr.  Clayton,  in  the  first  instance, 
because  he  was  already  attached  to  the  Events,  and  I 
wished  to  promote  him.  Office  during  good  behavior, 
and  promotion  in  the  direct  line  :  I  'm  that  much  of  a 
civil-service  reformer,"  said  Witherby. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Bartley. 

"But  of  course  my  idea  in  starting  the  Events 
was  to  make  money." 

"  Of  course." 

"  I  hold  that  the  first  duty  of  a  public  journal  is 
to  make  money  for  the  owner ;  all  the  rest  follows 
naturally." 

"  You  're  quite  right,  Mr.  Witherby,"  said  Bartley. 
"  Unless  it  makes  money,  there  can  be  no  enterprise 
about  it,  no  independence,  —  nothing.  That  was  the 
way  I  did  with  my  little  paper  down  in  Maine.  The 
first  thing  —  I  told  the  committee  when  I  took  hold 
of  the  paper  —  is  to  keep  it  from  losing  money ;  the 
next  is  to  make  money  with  it.  First  peaceable,  then 
pure  :  that 's  what  I  told  them." 

"  Precisely  so ! "  Witherby  was  now  so  much  at 
his  ease  with  Bartley  that  he  left  off  tormenting  the 
things  on  his  desk,  and  used  his  hands  in  gesticu- 
lating. "  Look  at  the  churches  themselves !  No 
church  can  do  any  good  till  it 's  on  a  paying  basis. 
As  long  as  a  church  is  in  debt,  it  can't  secure  the 
best  talent  for  the  pulpit  or  the  choir,  and  the 
members  go  about  feeling  discouraged  and  out  of 
heart.  It's  just  so  with  a  newspaper.  I  say  that 
a  paper  does  no  good  till  it  pays;  it  has  no  influ- 
ence, its  motives  are  always  suspected,  and  you've 
got  to  make  it  pay  by  hook  or  by  crook,  before  you 
can  hope  to  —  to  —  forward  any  good  cause  by  it. 
That 's  what  /  say.  Of  course,"  he  added,  in  a  large, 
smooth  way,  "  I  'm  not  going  to  contend  that  a 
newspaper  should  be  run  solely  in  the  interest  of 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  223 

the  counting-room.  Not  at  all !  But  I  do  contend 
that,  when  the  counting-room  protests  against  a  cer- 
tain course  the  editorial  room  is  taking,  it  ought  to  be 
respectfully  listened  to.  There  are  always  two  sides 
to  every  question.  Suppose  all  the  newspapers  pitch 
in  —  as  they  sometimes  do  —  and  denounce  a  certain 
public  enterprise :  a  projected  scheme  of  railroad 
legislation,  or  a  peculiar  system  of  banking,  or  a 
co-operative  mining  interest,  and  the  counting-room 
sends  up  word  that  the  company  advertises  heavily 
with  us ;  shall  we  go  and  join  indiscriminately  in  that 
hue  and  cry,  or  shall  we  give  our  friends  the  benefit 
of  the  doubt  ?  " 

"  Give  them  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,"  answered 
Bartley.  "  That 's  what  I  say." 

"  And  so  would  any  other  practical  man ! "  said 
Witherby.  "  And  that 's  just  where  Mr.  Clayton 
and  I  differed.  Well,  I  need  n't  allude  to  him  any 
more,"  he  added  leniently.  "What  I  wish  to  say 
is  this,  Mr.  Hubbard.  I  am  overworked,  and  I  feel 
the  need  of  some  sort  of  relief.  I  know  that  I  have 
started  the  Events  in  the  right  line  at  last,  —  the 
only  line  in  which  it  can  be  made  a  great,  useful,  and 
respectable  journal,  efficient  in  every  good  cause,  — 
and  what  I  want  now  is  some  sort  of  assistant 
in  the  management  who  shall  be  in  full  sympathy 
with  my  own  ideas.  I  don't  want  a  mere  slave,  —  a 
tool ;  but  I  do  want  an  independent,  right-minded 
man,  who  shall  be  with  me  for  the  success  of  the 
paper  the  whole  time  and  every  time,  and  shall  not 
be  continually  setting  up  his  will  against  mine  on 
all  sorts  of  doctrinaire  points.  That  was  the  trouble 
with  Mr.  Clayton.  I  have  nothing  against  Mr.  Clay- 
ton personally ;  he  is  an  excellent  young  man  in 
very  many  respects ;  but  he  was  all  wrong  about 
journalism,  all  wrong,  Mr.  Hubbard.  I  talked  with 
him  a  great  deal,  and  tried  to  make  him  see  where 


224  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

his  interest  lay.  He  had  been  on  the  paper  as  a 
reporter  from  the  start,  and  I  wished  very  much  to 
promote  him  to  this  position ;  which  he  could  have 
made  the  best  position  in  the  country.  The  Events 
is  an  evening  paper ;  there  is  no  night- work ;  and  the 
whole  thing  is  already  thoroughly  systematized.  Mr. 
Clayton  had  plenty  of  talent,  and  all  he  had  to  do 
was  to  step  in  under  my  direction  and  put  his  hand 
on  the  helm.  But,  no  !  I  should  have  been  glad  to 
keep  him  in  a  subordinate  capacity ;  but  I  had  to  let 
him  go.  He  said  that  he  would  not  report  the  con- 
flagration of  a  peanut-stand  for  a  paper  conducted  on 
the  principles  I  had  developed  to  him.  Now,  that 
is  no  way  to  talk.  It 's  absurd." 

"Perfectly."  Bartley  laughed  his  rich,  caressing 
laugh,  in  which  there  was  the  insinuation  of  all 
worldly-wise  contempt  for  Clayton  and  all  worldly- 
wise  sympathy  with  Witherby.  It  made  Witherby 
feel  good,  —  better  perhaps  than  he  had  felt  at  any 
time  since  his  talk  with  Clayton. 

"Well,  now,  what  do  you  say,  Mr.  Hubbard? 
Can't  we  make  some  arrangement  with  you?:>  he 
asked,  with  a  burst  of  frankness. 

"I  guess  you  can,"  said  Bartley.  The  fact  that 
Witherby  needed  him  was  so  plain  that  he  did  not 
care  to  practise  any  finesse  about  the  matter. 

"  What  are  your  present  engagements  ? " 

"  I  have  n't  any." 

"  Then  you  can  take  hold  at  once  ? " 

"Yes." 

"That's  good!"  Witherby  now  entered  at  large 
into  the  nature  of  the  position  which  he  offered 
Bartley.  They  talked  a  long  time,  and  in  becoming 
better  acquainted  with  each  other's  views,  as  they 
called  them,  they  became  better  friends.  Bartley 
began  to  respect  Witherby's  business  ideas,  and 
Witherby  in  recognizing  all  the  admirable  qualities 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  225 

of  this  clear-sighted  and  level-headed  young  man  be- 
gan to  feel  that  he  had  secretly  liked  him  from  the 
first,  and  had  only  waited  a  suitable  occasion  to  un- 
mask his  affection.  It  was  arranged  that  Bartley 
should  come  on  as  Witherby's  assistant,  and  should 
do  whatever  he  was  asked  to  do  in  the  management 
of  the  paper;  he  was  to  write  on  topics  as  they 
occurred  to  him,  or  as  they  were  suggested  to  him. 
"I  don't  say  whether  this  will  lead  to  anything 
more,  Mr.  Hubbard,  or  not ;  but  I  do  say  that  you 
will  be  in  the  direct  line  of  promotion." 

"  Yes,  I  understand  that,"  said  Bartley. 

"And  now  as  to  terms,"  continued  Witherby,  a 
little  tremulously. 

"  And  now  as  to  terms,"  repeated  Bartley  to  him- 
self; but  he  said  nothing  aloud.  He  felt  that  Witherby 
had  cut  out  a  great  deal  of  work  for  him,  and  work 
of  a  kind  that  he  could  not  easily  find  another  man 
both  willing  and  able  to  do.  He  resolved  that  he 
would  have  all  that  his  service  was  worth. 

"What  should  you  think  of  twenty  dollars  a 
week  ? "  asked  Witherby. 

"  I  should  n't  think  it  was  enough,"  said  Bartley, 
amazed  at  his  own  audacity,  but  enjoying  it,  and 
thinking  how  he  had  left  Marcia  with  the  intention 
of  offering  himself  to  Mr.  Atherton  as  a  clerk  for  ten 
dollars  a  week.  "  There  is  a  great  deal  of  labor  in 
what  you  propose,  and  you  command  my  whole  time. 
You  would  not  like  to  have  me  do  any  work  outside 
of  the  Events." 

"No,"  Witherby  assented.  "Would  twenty-five 
be  nearer  the  mark  ? "  he  inquired  soberly. 

"  It  would  be  nearer,  certainly,"  said  Bartley.  "  But 
I  guess  you  had  better  make  it  thirty."  He  kept  a 
quiet  face,  but  his  heart  throbbed. 

"Well,  say  thirty,  then,"  replied  Witherby  so 
promptly  that  Bartley  perceived  with  a  pang  that  he 

15 


226  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

might  as  easily  have  got  forty  from  him.  But  it  was 
now  too  late,  and  a  salary  of  fifteen  hundred  a  yeai 
passed  the  wildest  hopes  he  had  cherished  half  an 
hour  before. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  suppose  you  want 
me  to  take  hold  at  once  ? " 

"  Yes,  on  Monday.  Oh,  by  the  way,"  said  Witherby, 
"  there  is  one  little  piece  of  outside  work  which  I 
should  like  you  to  finish  up  for  us ;  and  we  '11  agree 
upon  something  extra  for  it,  if  you  wish.  I  mean 
our  Solid  Men  series.  I  don't  know  whether  you  Ve 
noticed  the  series  in  the  Events  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hartley,  " I  have." 

"  Well,  then,  you  know  what  they  are.  They  con- 
sist of  interviews  — guarded  and  inoffensive  as  respects 
the  sanctity  of  private  life  —  with  our  leading  manu- 
facturers and  merchant  princes  at  their  places  ot 
business  and  their  residences,  and  include  a  descrip- 
tion of  these,  and  some  account  of  the  lives  of  the 
different  subjects." 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  them,"  said  Bartley.  "I've 
noticed  the  general  plan." 

"  You  know  that  Mr.  Clayton  has  been  doing  them. 
He  made  them  a  popular  feature.  The  parties  them- 
selves were  very  much  pleased  with  them." 

"  Oh,  people  are  always  tickled  to  be  interviewed," 
said  Bartley.  "  I  know  they  put  on  airs  about  it,  and 
go  round  complaining  to  each  other  about  the  viola- 
tion of  confidence,  and  so  on ;  but  they  all  like  it. 
You  know  I  reported  that  Indigent  Surf-Bathing 
entertainment  in  June  for  the  Chronicle- Abstract. 
I  knew  the  lady  who  got  it  up,  and  I  interviewed 
her  after  the  entertainment." 

"  Miss  Kingsbury  ?  " 

"  Yes."  Witherby  made  an  inarticulate  murmur 
of  respect  for  Bartley  in  his  throat,  and  involun- 
tarily changed  toward  him,  but  not  so  subtly  thai 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  227 

Bartley's  finer  instinct  did  not  take  note  of  the  change. 
"  She  was  a  fresh  subject,  and  she  told  me  everything. 
Of  course  I  printed  it  all.  She  was  awfully  shocked,-— 
or  pretended  to  be, — and  wrote  me  a  very  O-dear-how- 
could-you  note  about  it.  But  I  went  round  to  the 
office  the  next  day,  and  I  found  that  nearly  every 
lady  mentioned  in  the  interview  had  ordered  half  a 
dozen  copies  of  that  issue  sent  to  her  seaside  address, 
and  the  office  had  been  full  of  Beacon  Street  swells 
all  the  morning  buying  Chronicle- Abstracts,  —  '  the 
one  with  the  report  of  the  Concert  in  it.'"  These 
low  views  of  high  society,  coupled  with  an  apparent 
familiarity  with  it,  modified  Witherby  more  and  more. 
He  began  to  see  that  he  had  got  a  prize.  "  The  way 
to  do  with  such  fellows  as  your  Solid  Men,"  continued 
Bartley,  "  is  to  submit  a  proof  to  'em.  They  never 
know  exactly  what  to  do  about  it,  and  so  you  print 
the  interview  with  their  approval,  and  make  'em 
particeps  criminis.  1 11  finish  up  the  series  for  you, 
and  I  won't  make  any  very  heavy  extra  charge." 

"  I  should  wish  to  pay  you  whatever  the  work  was 
worth,"  said  Witherby,  not  to  be  outdone  in  nobleness. 

"All  right;  we  sha'n't  quarrel  about  that,  at  any 
rate." 

Bartley  was  getting  toward  the  door,  for  he  was 
eager  to  be  gone  now  to  Marcia,  but  Witherby  fol- 
lowed him  up  as  if  willing  to  detain  him.  "My 
wife,"  he  said,  "  knows  Miss  Kiugsbury.  They  have 
been  on  the  same  charities  together." 

"  I  met  her  a  good  while  ago,  when  I  was  visiting 
a  chum  of  mine  at  his  father's  house  here.  I  did  n't 
suppose  she  'd  know  me ;  but  she  did  at  once,  and 
began  to  ask  me  if  I  was  at  the  Hallecks' — as  if  I  had 
never  gone  away." 

"  Mr.  Ezra  B"  Halleck  ? "  inquired  Witherby  rever- 
ently. "  Leather  trade  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Bartley.     "  I  believe  his  first  name  was 


228  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

Ezra.  Ben  Halleck  was  my  friend.  Do  you  kno\f 
the  family  ? "  asked  Bartley. 

"Yes,  we  have  met  them  —  in  society.  I  hope 
you're  pleasantly  situated  where  you  are,  Mr.  Hub- 
bard  ?  Should  be  glad  to  have  you  call  at  the 
house." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Bartley,  "  my  wife  will  be  glad 
to  have  Mrs.  Witherby  call." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Witherby.  "  I  did  n't  know  you  were 
married  !  That 's  good  !  There 's  nothing  like  mar- 
riage, Mr.  Hubbard,  to  keep  a  man  going  in  the  right 
direction.  But  you  Ve  begun  pretty  young." 

"  Nothing  like  taking  a  thing  in  time,"  answered 
Bartley.  "  But  I  have  n't  been  married  a  great  while ; 
and  I  'm  not  so  young  as  I  look.  Well,  good  after- 
noon, Mr.  Witherby." 

"  What  did  you  say  was  your  address  ? "  asked 
Witherby,  taking  out  his  note-book.  "  My  wife  will 
certainly  call.  She's  down  at  Nantasket  now,  but 
she  '11  be  up  the  first  part  of  September,  and  then 
she  '11  call.  Good  afternoon." 

They  shook  hands  at  last,  and  Bartley  ran  home  to 
Marcia.  He  burst  into  the  room  with  a  glowing  face. 
"  Well,  Marcia,"  he  shouted,  "  I  Ve  got  my  basis  ! " 

"  Hush  !  No  !  Don't  be  so  loud  !  You  have  n't ! " 
she  answered,  springing  to  her  feet.  "  I  don't  believe 
it !  How  hot  you  are !  " 

"  I  Ve  been  running — almost  all  the  way  from  the 
Events  office.  I've  got  a  place  on  the  Events, — as- 
sistant managing- editor, — thirty  dollars  a  week,"  he 
panted. 

"  I  knew  you  would  succeed  yet,  —  I  knew  you 
would,  if  I  could  only  have  a  little  patience.  I  Ve 
been  scolding  myself  ever  since  you  went.  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  do  something  desperate,  and  I  had 
driven  you  to  it.  But  Bartley,  Bartley  !  It  can 't  be 
true,  is  it  ?  Here,  here  t  Do  take  this  fan.  Or  no,  I  '11 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  229 

fan  you,  if  you  '11  let  me  sit  on  your  knee  !  0  poor 
thing,  how  hot  you  are  !  But  I  thought  you  would  n't 
write  for  the  Events ;  I  thought  you  hated  that  old 
Witherby,  who  acted  so  ugly  to  you  when  you  first 
came." 

"  Oh,  Witherby  is  a  pretty  good  old  fellow,"  said 
Bartley,  who  had  begun  to  get  his  breath  again.  He 
gave  her  a  full  history  of  the  affair,  and  they  rejoiced 
together  over  it,  and  were  as  happy  as  if  Bartley  had 
been  celebrating  a  high  and  honorable  good  fortune. 
She  was  too  ignorant  to  feel  the  disgrace,  if  there  were 
any,  in  the  compact  which  Bartley  had  closed,  and  he 
had  no  principles,  no  traditions,  by  which  to  perceive 
it.  To  them  it  meant  unlimited  prosperity ;  it  meant 
provision  for  the  future,  which  was  to  bring  a  new 
responsibility  and  a  new  care. 

"  We  will  take  the  parlor  with  the  alcove,  now," 
said  Bartley.  "  Don't  excite  yourself,"  he  added,  with 
tender  warning. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  pillowing  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  and  shedding  peaceful  tears. 

"It  doesn't  seem  as  if  we  should  ever  quarrel 
again,  does  it  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  We  never  shall,"  she  murmured.  "  It 
has  always  come  from  my  worrying  you  about  the 
law,  and  I  shall  never  do  that  any  more.  If  you 
like  journalism  better,  I  shall  not  urge  you  any  more 
to  leave  it,  now  you  've  got  your  basis." 

"  But  I  'm  going  on  with  the  law,  now,  for  that 
very  reason.  I  shall  read  law  all  my  leisure  time. 
I  feel  independent,  and  I  shall  not  be  anxious  about 
the  time  I  give,  because  I  shall  know  that  I  can 
afford  it." 

"  Well,  only  you  must  n't  overdo."  She  put  her 
lips  against  his  cheek.  "You're  more  to  me  than 
anything  you  can  do  for  me." 

"  Oh,  Marcia  I  " 


280  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 


XIX. 

Now  that  Bartley  had  got  his  basis,  and  had  no 
favors  to  ask  of  any  one,  he  was  curious  to  see  his 
friend  Halleck  again ;  but  when,  in  the  course  of  the 
Solid  Men  Series,  he  went  to  interview  A  Nestor  of 
the  Leather  Interest,  as  he  meant  to  call  the  elder 
Halleck,  he  resolved  to  let  him  make  all  the  advances. 
On  a  legitimate  business  errand  it  should  not  matter 
to  him  whether  Mr.  Halleck  welcomed  him  or  not. 
The  old  man  did  not  wait  for  Bartley  to  explain 
why  he  came ;  he  was  so  simply  glad  to  see  him 
that  Bartley  felt  a  little  ashamed  to  confess  that  he 
had  been  eight  months  in  Boston  without  making 
himself  known.  He  answered  all  the  personal  ques- 
tions with  which  Mr.  Halleck  plied  him ;  and  in  his 
turn  he  inquired  after  his  college  friend. 

"  Ben  is  in  Europe,"  said  his  father.  "  He  has 
been  there  all  summer ;  but  we  expect  him  home 
about  the  middle  of  September.  He 's  been  a  good 
while  settling  down,"  continued  the  old  man,  with  an 
unconscious  sigh.  "  He  talked  of  the  law  at  first,  and 
then  he  went  into  business  with  me;  but  he  did  n't 
seem  to  find  his  calling  in  it ;  and  now  he 's  taken  up 
.the  law  again.  He 's  been  in  the  Law  School  at  Cam- 
Ibridge,  and  he 's  going  back  there  for  a  year  or  two 
longer.  I  thought  you  used  to  talk  of  the  law  your- 
self when  you  were  with  us,  Mr.  Hubbard." 

"Yes,  I  did,"  Bartley  assented.  "And  I  haven't 
given  up  the  notion  yet.  I  Ve  read  a  good  deal  of  law 
Already ;  but  when  I  came  up  to  Boston,  I  had  to  ga 


£  MODERN  INSTANCE.  231 

into  newspaper  work  till  I  could  see  my  way  oat  of 
the  woods." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Halleck,  "  that 's  right.  And  you 
say  you  like  the  arrangement  you  Ve  made  with  Mr. 
Witherby  ? " 

"  It 's  ideal  —  for  me,"  answered  Bartley. 

"  Well,  that  's  good,"  said  the  old  man.  "  And 
you  Ve  come  to  interview  me.  Well,  that 's  all  right. 
I  'm  not  much  used  to  being  in  print,  but  I  shall  be 
glad  to  tell  you  all  I  know  about  leather." 

"  You  may  depend  upon  my  not  saying  anything 
that  will  be  disagreeable  to  you,  Mr.  Halleck,"  said 
Bartley,  touched  by  the  old  man's  trusting  friendli- 
ness. When  his  inquisition  ended,  he  slipped  his 
notebook  back  into  his  pocket,  and  said  with  a  smile, 
"  We  usually  say  something  about  the  victim's  pri- 
vate residence,  but  I  guess  I  11  spare  you  that,  Mr. 
Halleck" 

"  Why,  we  live  in  the  old  place,  and  I  don't  sup- 
pose there  is  much  to  say.  We  are  plaiiv  people,  and 
we  don't  like  to  change.  When  I  built  there  thirty 
years  ago,  Rumford  Street  was  one  of  the  most  desira- 
ble streets  in  Boston.  There  was  no  Back  Bay,  then, 
you  know,  and  we  thought  we  were  doing  something 
very  fashionable.  But  fashion  has  drifted  away,  and 
left  us  high  and  dry  enough  on  Rumford  Street; 
though  we  don't  mind  it.  We  keep  the  old  house 
and  the  old  garden  pretty  much  as  you  saw  them. 
You  can  say  whatever  you  think  best.  There 's  a 
good  deal  of  talk  about  the  intrusiveuess  of  the  news- 
papers ;  all  I  know  is  that  they  Ve  never  intruded 
upon  me.  We  shall  not  be  afraid  that  you  will  abuse 
our  house,  Mr.  Hubbard,  because  we  expect  you  to 
come  there  again.  When  shall  it  be  ?  Mrs.  Halleck 
and  I  have  been  at  home  all  summer;  we  find  it 
the  most  comfortable  place;  and  we  shall  be  very 
£lad  if  you  '11  drop  in  any  evening  and  take  tea  with 


232  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

us.  We  keep  the  old  hours;  we've  nevei  take* 
kindly  to  the  late  dinners.  The  girls  are  off  at; 
the  mountains,  and  you  'd  see  nobody  but  Mrs.  Hal- 
leek  Come  this  evening  ! "  cried  the  old  man,  with 
mounting  cordiality. 

His  warmth  as  he  put  his  hand  on  Bartley's  shoul* 
der  made  the  young  man  blush  again  for  the  reserve 
with  which  he  had  been  treating  his  own  affairs.  He 
stammered  out,  hoping  that  the  other  would  see  the 
relevancy  of  the  statement,  "  Why,  the  fact  is,  Mr. 
Halleck,  I  —  I  'm  married." 

"  Married  ? "  said  Mr.  Halleck.  "  Why  did  n't  you 
tell  me  before  ?  Of  course  we  want  Mrs.  Hubbard, 
too.  Where  are  you  living  ?  We  won't  stand  upon 
ceremony  among  old  friends.  Mrs.  Halleck  will 
come  with  the  carriage  and  fetch  Mrs.  Hubbard,  and 
your  wife  must  take  that  for  a  call.  Why,  you  don't 
know  how  glad  we  shall  be  to  have  you  both  !  I  wish 
Ben  was  married.  You  '11  come  ? " 

"Of  course  we  will,"  said  Bartley.  "But  you 
must  n't  let  Mrs.  Halleck  send  for  us ;  we  can  walk 
perfectly  well." 

"  You  can  walk  if  you  want,  but  Mrs.  Hubbard 
shall  ride,"  said  the  old  man. 

When  Bartley  reported  this  to  Marcia,  "  Bartley  ! " 
she  cried.  "  In  her  carriage  ?  I  'm  afraid  ! " 

"Nonsense !  She  '11  be  a  great  deal  more  afraid 
than  you  are.  She's  the  bashfulest  old  lady  you 
ever  saw.  All  that  I  hope  is  that  you  won't  over- 
power her." 

"Bartley,  hush !     Shall  I  wear  my  silk,  or—  " 

"  Oh,  wear  the  silk,  by  all  means.  Crush  them  at 
a  blow ! " 

Eumford  Street  is  one  of  those  old-fashioned 
thoroughfares  at  the  West  End  of  Boston,  which 
are  now  almost  wholly  abandoned  to  boarding-houses 
of  the  poorer  class.  Yet  they  are  charming  streets, 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  233 

quiet,  clean,  and  respectable,  and  worthy  still  to  be 
the  homes,  as  they  once  were,  of  solid  citizens.  The 
red  brick  houses,  with  their  swell  fronts,  looking  in 
perspective  like  a  succession  of  round  towers,  are 
/•cached  by  broad  granite  steps,  and  their  doors  are 
deeply  sunken  within  the  wagon-roofs  of  white- 
painted  Koman  arches.  Over  the  door  there  is 
sometimes  the  bow  of  a  fine  transom,  and  the  parlor 
windows  on  the  first  floor  of  the  swell  front  have  the 
same  azure  gleam  as  those  of  the  beautiful  old  houses 
which  front  the  Common  on  Beacon  Street. 

When  her  husband  bought  his  lot  there,  Mrs.  Hal- 
leek  could  hardly  believe  that  a  house  on  Eumford 
Street  was  not  too  fine  for  her.  They  had  come  to 
the  city  simple  and  good  young  village  people,  and 
simple  and  good  they  had  remained,  through  the  ad- 
vancing years  which  had  so  wonderfully  —  Mrs.  Hal- 
leek  hoped,  with  a  trembling  heart,  not  wickedly  — 
prospered  them.  They  were  of  faithful  stock,  and 
they  had  been  true  to  their  traditions  in  every  way. 
One  of  these  was  constancy  to  the  orthodox  reli- 
gious belief  in  which  their  young  hearts  had  united, 
and  which  had  blessed  all  their  life  ;  though  their 
charity  now  abounded  perhaps  more  than  their  faith. 
They  still  believed  that  for  themselves  there  was  no 
spiritual  safety  except  in  their  church ;  but  since 
their  younger  children  had  left  it  they  were  forced 
tacitly  to  own  that  this  might  not  be  so  in  all  cases. 
Their  last  endeavor  for  the  church  in  Ben's  case  was 
to  send  him  to  the  college  where  he  and  Bartley  met ; 
and  this  was  such  a  failure  on  the  main  point,  that  it 
left  them  remorsefully  indulgent.  He  had  submit- 
ted, and  had  foregone  his  boyish  dreams  of  Harvard, 
where  all  his  mates  were  going ;  but  the  sacrifice 
seemed  to  have  put  him  at  odds  with  life.  The  years 
which  had  proved  the  old  people  mistaken  would  not 
come  back  upon  their  recognition  of  their  error.  Ha 


234  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

returned  to  the  associations  from  which  they  had 
exiled  him  too  much  estranged  to  resume  them,  and 
they  saw,  with  the  unavailing  regrets  which  visit 
fathers  and  mothers  in  such  cases,  that  the  young 
know  their  own  world  better  than  their  elders  can 
know  it,  and  have  a  right  to  be  in  it  and  of  it,  supe- 
rior to  any  theory  of  their  advantage  which  their 
elders  can  form.  Ben  was  not  the  fellow  to  com- 
plain; in  fact,  after  he  came  home  from  college,  he 
was  allowed  to  shape  his  life  according  to  his  own 
rather  fitful  liking.  His  father  was  glad  now  to  con- 
tent him  in  anything  he  could,  it  was  so  very  little 
that  Ben  asked.  If  he  had  suffered  it,  perhaps  his 
family  would  have  spoiled  him. 

The  Halleck  girls  went  early  in  July  to  the  Profile 
House,  where  they  had  spent  their  summers  for  many 
years ;  but  the  old  people  preferred  to  stay  at  home, 
and  only  left  their  large,  comfortable  house  for  short 
absences.  Their  ways  of  life  had  been  fixed  in  other 
times,  and  Mrs.  Halleck  liked  better  than  mountain 
or  sea  the  high-walled  garden  that  stretched  back 
of  their  house  to  the  next  street.  They  had  bought 
through  to  this  street  when  they  built,  but  they  had 
never  sold  the  lot  that  fronted  on  it.  They  laid  it 
out  in  box-bordered  beds,  and  there  were  clumps  of 
hollyhocks,  sunflowers,  lilies,  and  phlox,  in  different 
corners ;  grapes  covered  the  trellised  walls ;  there 
were  some  pear-trees  that  bore  blossoms,  and  some- 
times ripened  their  fruit  beside  the  walk.  Mrs.  Hal- 
leck used  to  work  in  the  garden ;  her  husband  seldom 
descended  into  it,  but  he  liked  to  sit  on  the  iron-railed 
balcony  overlooking  it  from  the  back  parlor. 

As  for  the  interior  of  the  house,  it  had  been  fur- 
nished, once  for  all,  in  the  worst  style  of  that  most 
tasteless  period  of  household  art,  which  prevailed 
from  1840  to  1870 ;  and  it  would  be  impossible  to 
Bay  which  were  most  hideous,  the  carpets  or  the 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  235 

Chandeliers,  the  curtains  or  the  chairs  and  sofas ;  crude 
colors,  lumpish  and  meaningless  forms,  abounded  in 
a  rich  and  horrible  discord.  The  old  people  thought 
it  all  beautiful,  and  those  daughters  who  had  come 
into  the  new  house  as  little  girls  revered  it ;  but  Ben 
and  his  youngest  sister,  who  had  been  born  in  the 
house,  used  the  right  of  children  of  their  parents' 
declining  years  to  laugh  at  it.  Yet  they  laughed  with 
a  sort  of  filial  tenderness. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  how  frightful  you  have 
everything  about  you,  Olive,"  said  Clara  Kingsbury, 
one  day  after  the  Eastlake  movement  began,  as  she 
took  a  comprehensive  survey  of  the  Halleok  drawing- 
room  through  her  pince-nez. 

"  Certainly,"  answered  the  youngest  Miss  Halleck. 
"It 's  a  perfect  chamber  of  horrors.  But  I  like  it,  be- 
cause everything 's  so  exquisitely  in  keeping." 

"  Eeally,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  seen  it  all  for  the  first 
time,"  said  Miss  Kingsbury.  "  I  don't  believe  I  ever 
realized  it  before." 

She  and  Olive  Halleck  were  great  friends,  though 
Clara  was  fashionable  and  Olive  was  not. 

"  It  would  all  have  been  different,"  Ben  used  to  say, 
in  whimsical  sarcasm  of  what  he  had  once  believed, 
"  if  I  had  gone  to  Harvard.  Then  the  fellows  in  my 
class  would  have  come  to  the  house  with  me,  and  WP. 
should  have  got  into  the  right  set  naturally.  Now, 
we  're  outside  of  everything,  and  it  makes  ine  mad, 
because  we  've  got  money  enough  to  be  inside,  and 
there 's  nothing  to  prevent  it.  Of  course,  I  'm  not 
going  to  say  that  leather  is  quite  as  blameless  as 
cotton  socially,  but  taken  in  the  wholesale  form  it 
is  n't  so  very  malodorous ,  and  it 's  quite  as  good  as 
other  things  that  are  accepted." 

"  It 's  not  the  leather,  Ben,"  answered  Olive,  "  and 
it 's  not  your  not  going  to  Harvard  altogether,  though 
that  has  something  to  do  with  it.  The  trouble 's  m 


236  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

me.  I  was  at  school  with  all  those  girls  Clara  goes 
with,  and  I  could  have  been  in  that  set  if  I  'd  wanted ; 
but  I  did  n't  really  want  to.  I  saw,  at  a  very  tender 
age,  that  it  was  going  to  be  more  trouble  than  it  was 
worth,  and  I  just  quietly  kept  out  of  it.  Of  course, 
I  could  n't  have  gone  to  Papanti's  without  a  fuss,  but 
mother  would  have  let  me  go  if  I  had  made  the  fuss  ; 
and  I  could  be  hand  and  glove  with  those  girls  now, 
if  I  tried.  They  come  here  whenever  I  ask  them ; 
and  when  I  meet  them  on  charities,  I  'm  awfully 
popular.  No,  if  I  'm  not  fashionable,  it 's  my  own 
fault.  But  what  difference  does  it  make  to  you,  Ben  ? 
You  don't  want  to  marry  any  of  those  girls  as  long  as 
your  heart 's  set  on  that  unknown  charmer  of  yours." 
Ben  had  once  seen  his  charmer  in  the  street  of  a  little 
Down  East  town,  where  he  met  her  walking  with 
some  other  boarding-school  girls ;  in  a  freak  with  his 
fellow-students,  he  had  bribed  the  village  photogra- 
pher to  let  him  have  the  picture  of  the  young  lady, 
which  he  had  sent  home  to  Olive,  marked, "  My  Lost 
Love." 

"  No,  I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody,"  said  Ben. 
*  But  I  hate  to  live  in  a  town  where  I  'm  not  first 
chop  in  everything." 

"  Pshaw !  "  cried  his  sister,  "  I  guess  it  does  n't 
trouble  you  much." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  it  does,"  he  admitted. 

Mrs.  Halleck's  black  coachman  drove  her  to  Mrs. 
Nash's  door  on  Canary  Place,  where  she  alighted  and 
rang  with  as  great  perturbation  as  if  it  had  been  a 
palace,  and  these  poor  young  people  to  whom  she  was 
going  to  be  kind  were  princes.  It  was  sufficient  that 
they  were  strangers ;  but  Marcia's  anxiety,  evident 
even  to  meekness  like  Mrs.  Halleck's,  restored  her 
somewhat  to  her  self-possession ;  and  the  thought 
that  Bartley,  in  spite  of  his  personal  splendor,  was  a 
friend  of  Ben's,  was  a  help,  and  she  got  home 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  237 

her  guests  without  any  great  chasms  in  the  conversa- 
tion, though  she  never  ceased  to  twist  the  window- 
tassel  in  her  embarrassment. 

Mr.  Halleck  came  to  her  rescue  at  her  own  door, 
and  let  them  in.  He  shook  hands  with  Bartley  again, 
and  viewed  Marcia  with  a  fatherly  friendliness  that 
took  away  half  her  awe  of  the  ugly  magnificence  of 
the  interior.  But  still  she  admired  that  Bartley  could 
be  so  much  at  his  ease.  He  pointed  to  a  stick  at  the 
foot  of  the  hat-rack,  and  said,  "  How  much  that  looks 
like  Halleck  ! "  which  made  the  old  man  laugh,  and 
clap  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  cry :  "  So  it  does  !  so  it 
does  !  Kecognized  it,  did  you  ?  Well,  we  shall  soon 
have  him  with  us  again,  now.  Seems  a  long  time  to 
us  since  he  went." 

"  Still  limps  a  little  ?"  asked  Bartley. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  he  11  never  quite  get  over  that." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  should  like  him  to,"  said  Bart- 
ley. "  He  would  n't  seem  natural  without  a  cane  in 
his  hand,  or  hanging  by  the  crook  over  his  left  elbow, 
while  he  stood  and  talked." 

The  old  man  clapped  Bartley  on  the  shoulder  again, 
and  laughed  again  at  the  image  suggested.  "  That 's 
so  !  that 's  so  !  You  're  right,  I  guess  !  " 

As  soon  as  Marcia  could  lay  off  her  things  in  the 
gorgeous  chamber  to  which  Mrs.  Halleck  had  shown 
her,  they  went  out  to  tea  in  the  dining-room  over- 
looking the  garden. 

"  Seems  natural,  don't  it  ? "  asked  the  old  man,  as 
Bartley  turned  to  one  of  the  windows. 

"  Not  changed  a  bit,  except  that  I  was  here  in  win- 
ter, and  I  had  n't  a  chance  to  see  how  pretty  your 
garden  was." 

"It  is  pretty,  is  n't  it  ? "  said  the  old  man.  "  Mother 
*—  Mrs.  Halleck,  I  mean — looks  after  it.  She  keeps 
it  about  right.  Here 's  Cyrus ! "  he  said,  as  the  serving- 
man  came  into  the  room  with  something  from  the 


238  A  MODERN  INSTANCE: 

kitchen  in  his  hands.  "You  remember  Cyrus,  1 
guess,  Mr.  Hubbard  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes  ! "  said  Bartley,  and  when  Cyrus  had  set 
down  his  dish,  Bartley  shook  hands  with  the  New 
Hampshire  exemplar  of  freedom  and  equality ;  he 
was  no  longer  so  young  as  to  wish  to  mark  a  social 
difference  between  himself  and  the  inside-man  who 
had  served  Mr.  Halleck  with  unimpaired  self-respect 
for  twenty-five  years. 

There  was  a  vacant  place  at  table,  and  Mr.  Halleck 
said  he  hoped  it  would  be  taken  by  a  friend  of  theirs. 
He  explained  that  the  possible  guest  was  his  lawyer, 
whose  office  Ben  was  going  into  after  he  left  the  Law 
School ;  and  presently  Mr.  Atherton  came.  Bartley 
was  prepared  to  be  introduced  anew,  but  he  was 
flattered  and  the  Hallecks  were  pleased  to  fin/1  that 
he  and  Mr.  Atherton  were  already  acquainted;  the 
latter  was  so  friendly,  that  Bartley  was  confirmed 
in  his  belief  that  you  could  not  make  an  interview 
too  strong,  for  he  had  celebrated  Mr.  Atherton  among 
the  other  people  present  at  the  Indigent  Surf-Bathing 
entertainment. 

He  was  put  next  to  Marcia,  and  after  a  while  he 
began  to  talk  with  her,  feeling  with  a  tacit  skill  for 
her  highest  note,  and  striking  that  with  kindly  per- 
severance. It  was  not  a  very  high  note,  and  it  was 
not  always  a  certain  sound.  She  could  not  be  sure 
that  he  was  really  interested  in  the  simple  matters 
he  had  set  her  to  talking  about,  and  from  time  to  time 
she  was  afraid  that  Bartley  did  not  like  it :  she  would 
not  have  liked  him  to  talk  so  long  or  so  freely  with  a 
lady.  But  she  found  herself  talking  on,  about  board- 
ing, and  her  own  preference  for  keeping  house  ;  about 
Equity,  and  what  sort  of  place  it  was,  and  how  far 
from  Crawford's ;  about  Boston,  and  what  she  had  seeu 
and  done  there  since  she  had  come  in  the  winter. 
Most  of  her  remarks  began  or  ended  with  Mr,  Hub- 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  239 

bard ;  many  of  her  opinions,  especially  in  matters  of 
taste,  were  frank  repetitions  of  what  Mr.  Hubbard 
thought ;  her  conversation  had  the  charm  and  pa- 
thos of  that  of  the  young  wife  who  devotedly  loves 
her  husband,  who  lives  in  and  for  him,  tests  every- 
thing by  him,  refers  everything  to  him.  She  had  a 
good  mind,  though  it  was  as  bare  as  it  could  well  be 
of  most  of  the  things  that  the  ladies  of  Mr.  Atherton's 
world  put  into  their  minds. 

Mrs.  Halleck  made  from  time  to  time  a  little  mur- 
mur of  satisfaction  in  Marcia's  loyalty,  and  then  sank 
back  into  the  rneek  silence  that  she  only  emerged  from 
to  propose  more  tea  to  some  one,  or  to  direct  Cyrus 
about  offering  this  dish  or  that. 

After  they  rose  she  took  Marcia  about,  to  show  her 
the  house,  ending  with  the  room  which  Bartley  had 
when  he  visited  there.  They  sat  down  in  this  room 
and  had  a  long  chat,  and  when  they  came  back  to  the 
parlor  they  found  Mr.  Atherton  already  gone.  Marcia 
inferred  the  early  habits  of  the  household  from  the 
departure  of  this  older  friend,  but  Bartley  was  in  no 
hurry ;  he  was  enjoying  himself,  and  he  could  not  see 
that  Mr.  Halleck  seemed  at  all  sleepy. 

Mrs.  Halleck  wished  to  send  them  home  in  her  car- 
riage, but  they  would  not  hear  of  this  ;  they  would  far 
rather  walk,  and  when  they  had  been  followed  to  the 
door,  and  bidden  mind  the  steps  as  they  went  down, 
the  wide  open  night  did  not  seem  too  large  for  their 
content  in  themselves  and  each  other. 

"  Did  you  have  a  nice  time  ? "  asked  Bartley,  though 
lie  knew  he  need  not. 

"  The  best  time  I  ever  had  in  the  world ! "  cried 
Marcia. 

They  discussed  the  whole  affair;  the  two  old  peo- 
ple ;  Mr.  Atherton,  and  how  pleasant  he  was ;  the 
house  and  its  splendors,  which  they  did  not  know 


240  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

were  hideous.  "  Bartley,"  said  Marcia  at  last,  "  I 
told  Mrs.  Halleck." 

"  Did  you  ? "  he  returned,  in  trepidation  ;  but  aftei 
a  while  he  laughed.  "  Well,  all  right,  if  you  wanted 
to." 

"  Yes,  I  did ;  and  you  can't  think  how  kind  she 
was.  She  says  we  must  have  a  house  of  our  own 
somewhere,  and  she 's  going  round  with  me  in  her 
carriage  to  help  me  to  find  one." 

"  Well,"  said  Bartley,  and  he  fetched  a  sigh,  half 
of  pride,  half  of  dismay. 

"  Yes,  I  long  to  go  to  housekeeping.  We  can  afford 
it  now.  She  says  we  can  get  a  cheap  little  house,  or 
half  a  house,  up  at  the  South  End,  and  it  won't  cost 
us  any  more  than  to  board,  hardly ;  and  that's  what  I 
think,  too." 

"  Go  ahead,  if  you  can  find  the  house.  I  don't  object 
to  my  own  fireside.  And  I  suppose  we  must." 

"  Yes,  we  must.     Ain't  you  glad  of  it  ? " 

They  were  in  the  shadow  of  a  tall  house,  and  he 
dropped  his  face  toward  the  face  she  lifted  to  his,  and 
gave  her  a  silent  kiss  that  made  her  heart  leap  toward 
him. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  241 


XX. 


WITH  the  other  news  that  Halleck's  mother  gave 
him  on  his  return,  she  told  him  of  the  chance  that 
had  brought  his  old  college  comrade  to  them  again, 
and  of  how  Bartley  was  i/ow  married,  and  was  just 
settled  in  the  little  house  she  had  helped  his  wife  to 
find.  "  He  has  married  a  very  pretty  girl/'  she  said. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say !  "  answered  her  son.  "  He  is  n't 
the  fellow  to  have  married  a  plain  girl." 

"  Your  father  and  I  have  been  to  call  upon  them  in 
their  new  house,  and  they  seem  very  happy  together. 
Mr.  Hubbard  wants  you  should  come  to  see  them. 
He  talks  a  great  deal  about  you." 

"  1 11  look  them  up  in  good  time,"  said  the  young 
man.  "  Hubbard's  ardor  to  see  me  will  keep." 

That  evening  Mr.  Atherton  came  to  tea,  and  Hal- 
leek  walked  home  with  him  to  his  lodgings,  which 
were  over  the  hill,  and  beyond  the  Public  Garden, 
"  Yes,  it's  very  pleasant,  getting  back,"  he  said,  as  they 
sauntered  down  the  Common  side  of  Beacon  Street, 
"  and  the  old  town  is  picturesque  after  the  best  they 
can  do  across  the  water."  He  halted  his  friend,  and 
brought  himself  to  a  rest  on  his  cane,  for  a  look  ovei 
the  hollow  of  the  Common  and  the  level  of  the  Garden 
where  the  late  September  dark  was  keenly  spangled 
with  lamps.  "  'My  heart  leaps  up,'  and  so  forth,  when 
I  see  that.  Now  that  Athens  and  Florence  and  Edin- 
burgh are  past,  I  don't  think  there  is  any  place  quite 
so  well  worth  being  born  in  as  Boston."  He  moved 
forward  again,  gently  surging  with  his  limp,  in  a  way 


242  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

that  had  its  charm  for  those  that  loved  him.  "  It  'a 
more  authentic  and  individual,  more  municipal,  after 
the  old  pattern,  than  any  other  modern  city.  It  gives 
its  stamp,  it  characterizes.  The  Boston  Irishman,  the 
Boston  Jew,  is  a  quite  different  Irishman  or  Jew  from 
those  of  other  places.  Even  Boston  provinciality  is 
a  precious  testimony  to  the  authoritative  personality 
of  the  city.  Cosmopolitanism  is  a  modern  vice,  and 
\ve  're  antique,  we  're  classic,  in  the  other  thing.  Yes, 
I  'd  rather  be  a  Bostonian,  at  odds  with  Boston,  than 
one  of  the  curled  darlings  of  any  other  community." 

A  friend  knows  how  to  allow  for  mere  quantity  in 
your  talk,  and  only  replies  to  the  quality,  separates 
your  earnest  from  your  whimsicality,  and  accounts  for 
some  whimsicality  in  your  earnest.  "  I  didn't  know 
but  you  might  have  got  that  bee  out  of  your  bonnet, 
on  the  other  side,"  said  Atherton. 

"  No,  sir ;  we  change  our  skies,  but  not  our  bees. 
What  should  I  amount  to  without  my  grievance  ? 
You  wouldn't  have  known  me.  This  talk  to-night 
about  Hubbard  has  set  my  bee  to  buzzing  with  un- 
common liveliness ;  and  the  thought  of  the  Law  School 
next  week  does  nothing  to  allay  him.  The  Law 
School  is  n't  Harvard ;  I  realize  that  more  and  more, 
though  I  have  tried  to  fancy  that  it  was.  No,  sir,  my 
wrongs  are  irreparable.  I  had  the  making  of  a  real 
Harvard  man  in  me,  and  of  a  Unitarian,  nicely 
balanced  between  radicalism  and  amateur  episcopacy, 
Now,  I  am  an  orthodox  ruin,  and  the  un dutiful  step- 
son of  a  Down  East  alma  mater.  I  belong  nowhere ; 
1  'm  at  odds.  —  Is  Hubbard 's  wife  really  handsome,  01 
is  she  only  country-pretty  ? " 

"  She 's  beautiful,  —  I  assure  you  she 's  beautiful," 
said  Atherton  with  such  earnestness  that  Hallecli 
laughed. 

"Well,  that's  right!  as  my  father  says.  How 'a 
she  beautiful?" 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  243 

"  That 's  difficult  to  tell.  It 's  rather  a  superb  sort 
of  style  ;  and  -  What  did  you  really  use  to  think 
of  your  friend  ? "  Atherton  broke  off  to  ask. 

«  Who  ?     Hubbard  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  He  was  a  poor,  cheap  sort  of  a  creature.  Deplor- 
ably smart,  and  regrettably  handsome.  A  fellow  that 
assimilated  everything  to  a  certain  extent,  and  nothing 
thoroughly.  A  fellow  with  no  more  moral  nature 
than  a  base-ball.  The  sort  of  chap  you  'd  expect  to 
find,  the  next  time  you  met  him,  in  Congress  or  the 
house  of  correction." 

"  Yes,  that  accounts  for  it,"  said  Atherton,  thought- 
fully. 

"  Accounts  for  what  ? " 

"  The  sort  of  look  she  had.  A  look  as  if  she  were 
naturally  above  him,  and  had  somehow  fascinated 
herself  with  him,  and  were  worshipping  him  in  some 
sort  of  illusion." 

"  Does  n't  that  sound  a  little  like  refining  upon  the 
facts  ?  Eecollect :  I  've  never  seen  her,  and  I  don't 
say  you're  wrong." 

"I'm  not  sure  I'm  not,  though.  I  talked  with 
her,  and  found  her  nothing  more  than  honest  and 
sensible  and  good  ;  simple  in  her  traditions,  of  course, 
and  countrified  yet,  in  her  ideas,  with  a  tendency  to 
the  intensely  practical.  I  don't  see  why  she  might  n't 
very  well  be  his  wife.  I  suppose  every  woman  hood- 
winks herself  about  her  husband  in  some  degree." 

"  Yes ;  and  we  always  like  to  fancy  something 
pathetic  in  the  fate  of  pretty  girls  that  other  fellows 
marry.  I  notice  that  we  don't  sorrow  much  over  the 
plain  ones.  How 's  the  divine  Clara  ? " 

"  I  believe  she 's  well,"  said  Atherton.  "  I  have  n't 
Been  her,  all  summer.  She 's  been  at  Beverley." 

"  Why,  I  should  have  supposed  she  would  have 
up  and  surf- bathed  those  indigent  children  with 


244  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

her  own  hand.  She 's  equal  to  it.  What  made  hei 
falter  in  well-doing  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  that  we  can  properly  call  it  falter- 
ing. There  was  a  deficit  in  the  appropriation  neces- 
sary, and  she  made  it  up  herself.  After  that,  she 
consulted  me  seriously  as  to  whether  she  ought  not 
to  stay  in  town  and  superintend  the  execution  of  the 
plan.  But  I  told  her  she  might  fitly  delegate  that. 
She  was  all  the  more  anxious  to  perform  her  whole 
duty,  because  she  confessed  that  indigent  children 
were  personally  unpleasant  to  her." 

Halleck  burst  out  laughing.  "  That 's  like  Clara ! 
How  charming  women  are  !  They  're  charming  even 
in  their  goodness !  I  wonder  the  novelists  don't  take 
a  hint  from  that  fact,  and  stop  giving  us  those  scaly 
heroines  they've  been  running  lately.  Why,  a  real 
woman  can  make  righteousness  delicious  and  virtue 
piquant.  I  like  them  for  that !  " 

"  Do  you  ? "  asked  Atherton,  laughing  in  his  turn 
at  the  single-minded  confession.  He  was  some  years 
older  than  his  friend. 

They  had  got  down  to  Charles  Street,  and  Halleck 
took  out  his  watch  at  the  corner  lamp.  "  It  is  n't 
at  all  late  yet,  —  only  half -past  eight.  The  days  are 
getting  shorter." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Suppose  we  go  and  call  on  Hubbard  now  ?  He 's 
right  up  here  on  Clover  Street ! " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Atherton.  "  It  would  do  for 
you ;  you  're  an  old  friend.  But  for  me,  —  would  n't 
it  be  rather  unceremonious  ?  " 

"  Oh,  come  along  !  They  '11  not  be  punctilious. 
They  '11  like  our  dropping  in,  and  I  shall  have  Hub- 
bard  off  my  conscience.  I  must  go  to  see  him  soonei 
or  later,  for  decency's  sake." 

Atherton  suffered  himself  to  be  led  away.  "I 
suppose  you  won't  stay  long  ? " 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  245 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  shall  cut  it  very  short,"  said  Halieck ; 
and  they  climbed  the  narrow  little  street  where 
Marcia  had  at  last  found  a  house,  after  searching  the 
South  End  quite  to  the  Highlands,  and  ransacking 
Charlestown  and  Cambridgeport.  These  points  all 
seemed  to  her  terribly  remote  from  where  Bartley 
must  be  at  work  during  the  day,  and  she  must  be 
alone  without  the  sight  of  him  from  morning  till 
night.  The  accessibility  of  Canary  Place  had  spoiled 
her  for  distances ;  she  wanted  Bartley  at  home  for 
their  one-o'clock  dinner;  she  wanted  to  have  him 
within  easy  call  at  all  times  ;  and  she  was  glad  when 
none  of  those  far-off  places  yielded  quite  what  they 
desired  in  a  house.  They  took  the  house  on  Clover 
Street,  though  it  was  a  little  dearer  than  they  ex- 
pected, for  two  years,  and  they  furnished  it,  as  far  as 
they  could,  out  of  the  three  or  four  hundred  dollars 
they  had  saved,  including  the  remaining  hundred 
from  the  colt  and  cutter,  kept  sacredly  intact  by 
Marcia.  When  you  entered,  the  narrow  staircase 
cramped  you  into  the  little  parlor  opening  out  of  the 
hall ;  and  back  of  the  parlor  was  the  dining-room. 
Overhead  were  two  chambers,  and  overhead  again 
were  two  chambers  more ;  in  the  basement  was  the 
kitchen.  The  house  seemed  absurdly  large  to  people 
who  had  been  living  for  the  last  seven  months  in  one 
room,  and  the  view  of  the  Back  Bay  from  the  little 
bow-window  of  the  front  chamber  added  all  out- 
doors to  their  superfluous  space. 

Bartley  came  himself  to  answer  Halleck's  ring, 
and  they  met  at  once  with  such  a  "  Why,  Halieck  ! " 
and  "  How  do  you  do,  Hubbard  ? "  as  restored  some-  ' 
thing  of  their  old  college  comradery.  Bartley  wel- 
comed Mr.  Atherton  under  the  gas-light  he  had 
turned  up,  and  then  they  huddled  into  the  little  par- 
lor, where  Bartley  introduced  his  old  friend  to  his 
wife.  Marcia  wore  a  sort  of  dark  robe,  trimmed 


246  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

with  bows  of  crimson  ribbon,  which  she  had  made 
herself,  and  in  which  she  looked  a  Eon?  an  patrician 
in  an  avatar  of  Boston  domesticity ;  and  Bartley  was 
rather  proud  to  see  his  friend  so  visibly  dazzled  by 
her  beauty.  It  quite  abashed  Halleck,  who  limped 
helplessly  about,  after  his  cane  had  been  taken  from 
him,  before  he  sat  down,  while  Marcia,  from  the  van- 
tage of  the  sofa  and  the  covert  of  her  talk  with  Ath- 
erton,  was  content  that  Halleck  should  be  plain  and 
awkward,  with  close-cut  drab  hair  and  a  dull  com- 
plexion; she  would  not  have  liked  even  a  man  who 
knew  Bartley  before  she  did  to  be  very  handsome. 

Halleck  and  Bartley  had  some  talk  about  college 
days,  from  which  their  eyes  wandered  at  times ;  and 
then  Marcia  excused  herself  to  Atherton,  and  went 
out,  reappearing  after  an  interval  at  the  sliding  doors, 
which  she  rolled  open  between  the  parlor  and  din- 
ing-room. A  table  set  for  supper  stood  behind  her, 
and  as  she  leaned  a  little  forward  with  her  hands  each 
on  a  leaf  of  the  door,  she  said,  with  shy  pride,  "  Bart- 
ley, I  thought  the  gentlemen  would  like  to  join  you," 
and  he  answered,  "  Of  course  they  would,"  and  led  the 
way  out,  refusing  to  hear  any  demur.  His  heart  swelled 
with  satisfaction  in  Marcia ;  it  was  something  like : 
having  fellows  drop  in  upon  you,  and  be  asked  out  to 
supper  in  this  easy  way ;  it  made  Bartley  feel  good, 
and  he  would  have  liked  to  give  Marcia  a  hug  on 
the  spot.  He  could  not  help  pressing  her  foot,  un- 
der the  table,  and  exchanging  a  quiver  of  the  eye- 
lashes with  her,  as  he  lifted  the  lid  of  the  white 
tureen,  and  looked  at  her  across  the  glitter  of  their 
new  crockery  and  cutlery.  They  made  the  jokes  of 
the  season  about  the  oyster  being  promptly  on  hand 
for  the  first  of  the  E,  months,  and  Bartley  explained 
that  he  was  sometimes  kept  at  the  Events  office  rather 
late,  and  that  then  Marcia  waited  supper  for  him.  and 
always  gave  him  an  oyster  stew,  which  she  made  h&r- 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

self.  She  could  not  stop  him,  and  the  guests  praised 
the  oysters,  and  then  they  praised  the  dining-room  and 
the  parlor ;  and  when  they  rose  from  the  table  Bart- 
ley  said,  "  Now,  we  must  show  you  the  house,"  and 
persisted  against  her  deprecations  in  making  her  lead 
the  way.  She  was  in  fact  willing  enough  to  show  it ; 
her  taste  had  made  their  money  go  to  the  utmost  in 
furnishing  it ;  and  though  most  people  were  then  still 
in  the  period  of  green  reps  and  tan  terry,  and  of  dull 
black- walnut  movables,  she  had  everywhere  bestowed 
little  touches  that  told.  She  had  covered  the  mar- 
ble parlor-mantel  with  cloth,  and  fringed  it ;  and  she 
had  set  on  it  two  vases  in  the  Pompeiian  colors  then 
liked ;  her  carpet  was  of  wood  color  and  a  moss  pat- 
tern ;  she  had  done  what  could  be  done  with  folding 
carpet  chairs  to  give  the  little  room  a  specious  air  of 
luxury ;  the  centre-table  was  heaped  with  her  sewing 
and  Bartley's  newspapers. 

"  We  've  just  moved  in,  and  we  have  n't  furnished 
all  the  rooms  yet,"  she  said  of  two  empty  ones  which 
Bartley  perversely  flung  open. 

"And  I  don't  know  that  we  shall.  The  house  is 
much  too  big  for  us ;  but  we  thought  we  'd  better 
take  it,"  he  added,  as  if  it  were  a  castle  for  vastness. 

Halleck  and  Atherton  were  silent  for  some  mo- 
ments after  they  came  away,  and  then,  "/  don't 
believe  he  whips  her,"  suggested  the  latter. 

"No,  I  guess  he's  fond  of  her,"  said  Halleck, 
gravely. 

"  Did  you  see  how  careful  he  was  of  her,  coming 
up  and  down  stairs  ?  That  was  very  pretty ;  and  it 
was  pretty  to  see  them  both  so  ready  to  show  off 
their  young  housekeeping  to  us." 

"  Yes,  it  improves  a  man  to  get  married,"  said  Hal- 
leck, with  a  long,  stifled  sigh.  "  It  '&  improved  tho 
moat  selfish  hound  I  ever  knew." 


248  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 


XXL 

THE  two  elder  Miss  Hallecks  were  so  much  oldel 
than  Olive,  the  youngest,  that  they  seemed  to  be  of 
a  sort  of  intermediary  generation  between  her  and 
her  parents,  though  Olive  herself  was  well  out  of 
her  teens,  and  was  the  senior  of  her  brother  Ben  by 
two  or  three  years.  The  elder  sisters  were  always 
together,  and  they  adhered  in  common  to  the  reli- 
gion of  their  father  and  mother.  The  defection  of 
their  brother  was  passive,  but  Olive,  having  conscien- 
tiously adopted  an  alien  faith,  was  not  a  person  to  let 
others  imagine  her  ashamed  of  it,  and  her  Unitarian- 
ism  was  outspoken.  In  her  turn  she  formed  a  kind 
of  party  with  Ben  inside  the  family,  and  would  have 
led  him  on  in  her  own  excesses  of  independence  if  his 
somewhat  melancholy  indifferentism  had  consented. 
It  was  only  in  his  absence  that  she  had  been  with 
her  sisters  during  their  summer  sojourn  in  the  White 
Mountains ;  when  they  returned  home,  she  vigorously 
went  her  way,  and  left  them  to  go  theirs.  She  was 
fond  of  them  in  her  defiant  fashion ;  but  in  such  a 
matter  as  calling  on  Mrs.  Hubbard  she  chose  not  to 
be  mixed  up  with  her  family,  or  in  any  way  to  counte- 
nance her  family's  prepossessions.  Her  sisters  paid 
their  visit  together,  and  she  waited  for  Clara  Kings- 
bury  to  come  up  from  the  seaside.  Then  she  went 
with  her  to  call  upon  Marcia,  sitting  observant  and 
non-committal  while  Clara  swooped  through  the 
little  house,  up  stairs  and  down,  clamoring  over  its 
prettiness,  and  admiring  the  art  with  which  so  fe\v 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  249 

dollars  could  be  made  to  go  so  far.  "  Think  of  find- 
ing such  a  bower  on  Clover  Street ! "  She  made  Mar- 
cia  give  her  the  cost  of  everything;  and  her  heart 
swelled  with  pride  in  her  sex  when  she  heard  that 
Marcia  had  put  down  all  the  carpets  herself.  "I 
wanted  to  make  them  up,"  Marcia  explained,  "but 
Mr.  Hubbard  would  n't  let  me,  —  it  cost  so  little  at 
the  store." 

"  Would  n't  let  you  !  "  cried  Miss  Kingsbury.  "  I 
should  hope  as  much,  indeed  !  Why,  my  child,  you  're 
a  Roman  matron ! " 

She  came  away  in  agony  lest  Marcia  might  think  she 
meant  her  nose.  She  drove  early  the  next  morning  to 
tell  Olive  Halleck  that  she  had  spent  a  sleepless  night 
from  this  cause,  and  to  ask  her  what  she  should  do. 
"  Do  you  think  she  will  be  hurt,  Olive  ?  Tell  me 
what  led  up  to  it.  How  did  I  behave  before  that  ? 
The  context  is  everything  in  such  cases." 

"  Oh,  you  went  about  praising  everything,  and 
screaming  and  shouting,  and  my-dearing  and  my- 
childing  her,  and  patronizing  —  " 

"  There,  there  !  say  no  more  !  That 's  sufficient ! 
I  see,  —  I  see  it  all !  I  've  done  the  very  most  offen- 
sive thing  I  could,  when  I  meant  to  be  the  most 
appreciative." 

"  These  country  people  don't  like  to  be  appreciated 
down  to  the  quick,  in  that  way,"  said  Olive.  "  I 
should  think  Mrs.  Hubbard  was  rather  a  proud  person." 

"  I  know  !  I  know  !  "  moaned  Miss  Kingsbury. 
'*It  was  ghastly." 

"/don't  suppose  she's  ashamed  of  her  nose — " 

"  Olive  ! "  cried  her  friend,  "  be  still !  Why,  I  can't 
bear  it !  Why,  you  wretched  thing  ! " 

"  I  dare  say  all  the  ladies  in  Equity  make  up  their 
own  carpets,  and  put  them  down,  and  she  thought 
you  were  laughing  at  her." 

you  be  still,  Olive  Halleck  ? "     Miss  Kings- 


£50  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

bury  was  now  a  large,  blonde  mass  of  suffering 
"  Oh,  dear,  dear !  What  shall  I  do  ?  It  was  sacrilege 
• —  yes,  it  was  nothing  less  than  sacrilege  — to  go  on 
as  I  did.  And  I  meant  so  well !  I  did  so  admire, 
and  respect,  and  revere  her ! "  Olive  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. "  You  wicked  girl ! "  whimpered  Clara.  "  Should 
you  —  should  you  write  to  her  ?  " 

"  And  tell  her  you  did  n't  mean  her  nose  ?  Oh, 
by  all  means,  Clara,  —  by  all  means  !  Quite  an  in- 
spiration. Why  not  make  her  an  evening  party  ?" 

"  Olive,"  said  Clara,  with  guilty  meekness,  "  I  have 
been  thinking  of  that." 

"  JVo,  Clara  !  Not  seriously  ! "  cried  Olive,  sobered 
at  the  idea. 

"  Yes,  seriously.  Would  it  be  so  very  bad  ?  Only 
just  a  little  party,"  she  pleaded.  "  Half  a  dozen  people 
or  so ;  just  to  show  them  that  I  really  feel  —  friendly. 
I  know  that  he  's  told  her  all  about  meeting  me  here, 
and  I  'm  not  going  to  have  her  think  I  want  to  drop 
him  because  he 's  married,  and  lives  in  a  little  house 
on  Clover  Street." 

"  Noble  Clara !  So  you  wish  to  bring  them  out  in 
Boston  society  ?  What  will  you  do  with  them  after 
you  've  got  them  there  ? "  Miss  Kingsbury  fidgeted 
in  her  chair  a  little.  "  Now,  look  me  in  the  eye, 
Clara  !  Whom  were  you  going  to  ask  to  meet  them  ? 
Your  unfashionable  friends,  the  Hallecks  ? "  j 

"  My  friends,  the  Hallecks,  of  course." 
"  And  Mr.  Atherton,  your  legal  adviser  ?  " 
"I   had   thought  of    asking   Mr.  Atherton.     You 
*ieed  n't  say  what  he  is,  if  you  please,  Olive ;  you 
know  that  there 's  no  one  I  prize  so  much." 
"  Very  good.     And  Mr.  Cameron  ? " 
"  He  has  got  back,  —  yes.     He 's  very  nice." 
"  A  Cambridge  tutor ;  very  young  and  of  recent 
attachment  to  the  College,  with  no  local  affiliations, 
yet.     What  ladies  ?  " 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  '251 

"  Miss  Strong  is  a  nice  girl ;  she  is  studying  at  the 
Conservatory." 

"  Yes.  Poverty-stricken  votary  of  Miss  Kingsbury. 
Well?" 

"  Miss  Clancy." 

"  Unfashionable  sister  of  fashionable  artist.     Yes  ? " 

"  The  Brayhenis." 

"  Young  radical  clergyman,  and  his  wife,  without  a 
congregation,  and  hoping  for  a  pulpit  in  Billerica. 
Parlor  lectures  on  German  literature  in  the  mean  time. 
Well?" 

"  And  Mrs.  Savage,  I  thought." 

"Well-preserved  young  widow  of  uncertain  ante 
cedents  tending  to  grassiness ;  out-door  protfyfa    of 
the  hostess.     Yes,  Clara,  go  on  and  give  your  party. 
It  will  be  perfectly  safe  !     But  do  you  think  it  will 
deceive  anybody  ? " 

"  Now,  Olive  Halleck ! "  cried  Clara,  "  I  am  not 
going  to  have  you  talking  to  me  in  that  way !  You 
have  no  right  to  do  it,  and  you  have  no  business  to  do 
it,"  she  added,  trying  to  pluck  up  a  spirit.  "  Is  there 
anybody  that  I  value  more  than  I  do  you  and  your 
sisters,  and  Ben  ?  " 

"No.  But  you  don't  value  MS  just  in  that  way,  and 
you  know  it.  Don 't  you  be  a  humbug,  Clara.  Now 
go  on  with  your  excuses." 

"  I  'm  not  making  excuses  !  Is  n't  Mr.  Atherton  in 
the  most  fashionable  society  ? " 

"  Yes.  Why  don't  you  ask  some  other  fashionable 
people  ? " 

"  Olive,  this  is  all  nonsense,  —  perfect  nonsense  !  I 
can  invite  any  one  I  like  to  meet  any  one  I  like,  and 
if  I  choose  to  show  Mr.  Hubbard's  wife  a  little  atten- 
tion, I  can  do  it,  can't  I  ? " 

"  Oh,  of  course  ! " 

And  what  would  be  the  use  of  inviting  fashion, 
people  —  as  you  call  them  —  to  meet  them  ?     1$ 
would  just  embarrass  them,  all  round." 


252  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"Perfectly  correct,  Miss  Kingsbury.  All  that  1 
want  you  to  do  is  to  face  the  facts  of  the  case.  I 
want  you  to  realize  that,  in  showing  Mr.  Hubbard's 
wife  this  little  attention,  you  're  not  doing  it  because 
you  scorn  to  drop  an  old  friend,  and  want  to  do  him 
the  highest  honor;  but  because  you  think  you  can 
palm  off  your  second-class  acquaintance  on  them  for 
first-class,  and  try  to  make  up  in  that  way  for  telling 
her  she  had  a  hooked  nose  !" 

"  You  know  that  I  didn't  tell  her  she  had  a  hooked 
nose." 

"  You  told  her  that  she  was  a  Koman  matron,  — 
it 's  the  same  thing,"  said  Olive. 

Miss  Kingsbury  bit  her  lip  and  tried  to  look  a  dig- 
nified resentment.  She  ended  by  saying,  with  feeble 
spite,  "  I  shall  have  the  little  evening  for  all  you  say. 
I  suppose  you  won't  refuse  to  come  because  I  don't 
ask  the  whole  Blue  Book  to  meet  them." 

"  Of  course  we  shall  come  !  I  would  n't  miss  it  for 
anything.  I  always  like  to  see  how  you  manage  your 
pieces  of  social  duplicity,  Clara.  But  you  need  n't 
expect  that  I  will  be  a  party  to  the  swindle.  No, 
Clara !  I  shall  go  to  these  poor  young  people  and  tell 
them  plainly,  '  This  is  not  the  lest  society ;  Miss 
Kingsbury  keeps  that  for  — ' " 

"  Olive  !  I  think  I  never  saw  even  you  in  such  a 
teasing  humor."  The  tears  came  into  Clara's  large, 
tender  blue  eyes,  and  she  continued  with  an  appeal 
that  had  no  effect,  "  I  'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  make  it  a  question  of  anything  of  the  sort. 
It's  simply  a  wish  to  —  to  have  a  little  company 
of  no  particular  kind,  for  no  partic  —  Because  I 
want  to." 

"  Oh,  that 's  it,  is  it  ?  Then  I  highly  approve  of 
it,"  said  Olive.  "  When  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

"  I  sha'n't  tell  you,  now  !  You  may  wait  til)  I  'm 
ready,"  pouted  Clara,  as  she  rose  to  go.  - 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  253 

"  Don't  go  away  thinking  I  'm  enough  to  provoke  a 

saint  because  you  've  got  mad  at  me,  Clara  ! " 

"  Mad  ?  You  know  I  'm  not  mad !  But  I  think 
y  ou  might  be  a  little  sympathetic  sometimes,  Olive  J " 
gaid  her  friend,  kissing  her. 

"  Not  in  cases  of  social  duplicity,  Clara.  My  wrath 
is  all  that  saves  you.  If  you  were  not  afraid  of  me, 
you  would  have  been  a  lost  worldling  long  ago." 

"I  know  you  always  really  love  me,"  said  Miss 
Kingsbury,  tenderly. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  retorted  her  friend,  promptly.  "  Not 
when  you  're  humbugging.  Don't  expect  it,  for  you 
won't  get  it."  She  followed  Clara  with  a  triumphant 
laugh  AS  she  went  out  of  the  door;  and  except  for 
this  parting  taunt  Clara  might  have  given  up  her 
scheme.  She  first  ordered  her  couptf  driven  home,  in 
fact,  and  then  lowered  the  window  to  countermand 
the  direction,  and  drove  to  Bartley's  door  on  Clover 
Street. 

It  was  a  very  handsome  equipage,  and  was  in  keep- 
ing with  all  the  outward  belongings  of  Miss  Kings- 
bury,  who  mingled  a  sense  of  duty  and  a  love  of  lux- 
ury in  her  life  in  very  exact  proportions.  When  her 
couptf  was  not  standing  before  some  of  the  wretched- 
est  doors  in  the  city,  it  was  waiting  at  the  finest ;  and 
Clara's  days  were  divided  between  the  extremes  of 
squalor  and  of  fashion. 

She  was  the  only  child  of  parents  who  had  early 
left  her  an  orphan.  Her  father,  who  was  much  her 
mother's  senior,  was  an  old  friend  of  Olive's  father, 
and  had  made  him  his  executor  and  the  guardian  of 
his  daughter.  Mr.  Halleck  had  taken  her  into  his 
own  family,  and,  in  the  conscientious  pursuance  of 
what  he  believed  would  have  been  her  father's  prefer- 
ence, he  gave  her  worldly  advantages  which  he  would 
not  have  desired  for  one  of  his  own  children.  But 
the  friendship  that  grew  up  between  Clara  and  Oliva 


254  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

was  too  strong  for  him  in  some  things,  and  the  giria 
went  to  the  same  fashionable  school  together. 

When  his  ward  came  of  age  he  made  over  to  hei 
the  fortune,  increased  by  his  careful  management, 
which  her  father  had  left  her,  and  advised  her  to  put 
her  affairs  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Atherton.  She  had 
shown  a  quite  ungirlish  eagerness  to  manage  them 
for  herself;  in  the  midst  of  her  profusion  she  had 
odd  accesses  of  stinginess,  in  which  she  fancied  her- 
self coming  to  poverty ;  and  her  guardian  judged  it 
best  that  she  should  have  a  lawyer  who  could  tell  hei 
at  any  moment  just  where  she  stood.  She  hesitated, 
but  she  did  as  he  advised ;  and  having  once  intrusted 
her  property  to  Atherton's  care,  she  added  her  con- 
science and  her  reason  in  large  degree,  and  obeyed 
him  with  embarrassing  promptness  in  matters  that 
did  not  interfere  with  her  pleasures.  Her  pleasures 
were  of  various  kinds.  She  chose  to  buy  herself  a 
fine  house,  and,  having  furnished  it  luxuriously  and 
unearthed  a  cousin  of  her  father's  in  Vermont  and 
brought  her  to  Boston  to  matronize  her,  she  kept 
house  on  a  magnificent  scale,  pinching,  however,  at 
certain  points  with  unexpected  meanness.  When 
she  was  alone,  her  table  was  of  a  Spartan  austerity  ; 
she  exacted  a  great  deal  from  her  servants,  and  paid 
them  as  small  wages  as  she  could.  After  that  she  did 
not  mind  lavishing  money  upon  them  in  kindness. 
A  seamstress  whom  she  had  once  employed  fell  sick, 
and  Miss  Kingsbury  sent  her  to  the  Bahamas  and 
kept  her  there  till  she  was  well,  and  then  made  her 
a  guest  in  her  house  till  the  girl  could  get  back  her 
work.  She  watched  her  cook  through  the  measles, 
caring  for  her  like  a  mother ;  and,  as  Olive  Halleck 
said,  she  was  always  portioning  or  burying  the  sisters 
of  her  second-girls.  She  was  in  all  sorts  of  charities, 
but  she  was  apt  to  cut  her  charities  off  with  her 
pleasures  at  any  moment,  if  she  felt  poor.  She  was 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  255 

fond  of  dress,  and  went  a  great  deal  into  society :  she 
suspected  men  generally  of  wishing  to  marry  her  for 
her  money,  but  with  those  whom  she  did  not  think 
capable  of  aspiring  to  her  hand,  she  was  generously 
helpful  with  her  riches.  She  liked  to  patronize  ;  she 
had  long  supported  an  unpromising  painter  at  Rome, 
and  she  gave  orders  to  desperate  artists  at  home. 

The  world  had  pretty  well  hardened  one  half  of  her 
heart,  but  the  other  half  was  still  soft  and  loving,  and 
into  this  side  of  her  mixed  nature  she  cowered  when 
she  believed  she  had  committed  some  blunder  or 
crime,  and  came  whimpering  to  Olive  Halleck  for 
punishment.  She  made  Olive  her  discipline  partly 
in  her  lack  of  some  fixed  religion.  She  had  not  yet 
found  a  religion  that  exactly  suited  her,  though  she 
had  many  times  believed  herself  about  to  be  anchored 
in  some  faith  forever. 

She  was  almost  sorry  that  she  had  put  her  resolu- 
tion in  effect  when  she  rang  at  the  door,  and  Marcia 
herself  answered  the  bell,  in  place  of  the  one  servant 
who  was  at  that  moment  hanging  out  the  wash.  Tt 
seemed  wicked  to  pretend  to  be  showing  this  pretty 
creature  a  social  attention,  when  she  meant  to  palm 
off  a  hollow  imitation  of  society  upon  her.  Why 
should  she  not  ask  the  very  superfmest  of  her  friends 
to  meet  such  a  brilliant  beauty  ?  It  would  serve 
Olive  Halleck  right  if  she  should  do  this,  and  leave 
the  Hallecks  out ;  and  Marcia  would  certainly  be  a 
sensation.  She  half  believed  that  she  meant  to  do  it 
when  she  quitted  the  house  with  Marcia's  promise 
that  she  would  bring  her  husband  to  tea  on  Wednes- 
day evening,  at  eight ;  and  she  drove  away  so  far 
penitent  that  she  resolved  at  least  to  make  her  com- 
pany distinguished,  if  not  fashionable.  She  said  to 
herself  that  she  would  make  it  fashionable  yet,  if  she 
chose,  and  as  a  first  move  in  this  direction  she  easily 
secured  Mr.  Atherton :  he  had  no  engagements,  so  few 


256  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

people  had  got  back  to  town.  She  called  upon  Mra 
Witherby,  needlessly  reminding  her  of  the  charity 
committees  they  had  served  on  together ;  and  then 
she  went  home  and  actually  sent  out  notes  to  the 
plainest  daughter  and  the  maiden  aunt  of  two  of  the 
most  high-born  families  of  her  acquaintance.  She 
added  to  her  list  an  artist  and  his  wife,  ( "  Now  I 
shall  have  to  let  him  paint  me ! "  she  reflected,)  a 
young  author  whose  book  had  made  talk,  a  teacher 
of  Italian  with  whom  she  was  pretending  to  read 
Dante,  and  a  musical  composer. 

Olive  came  late,  as  if  to  get  a  whole  effect  of  the 
affair  at  once ;  and  her  smile  revealed  Clara's  failure 
to  her,  if  she  had  not  realized  it  before.  She  read 
there  that  the  aristocratic  and  aesthetic  additions 
which  she  had  made  to  the  guests  Olive  originally 
divined  had  not  sufficed  ;  the  party  remained  a  hum- 
bug. It  had  seemed  absurd  to  invite  anybody  to 
meet  two  such  little,  unknown  people  as  the  Hub- 
bards  ;  and  then,  to  avoid  marking  them  as  the  sub- 
jects of  the  festivity  by  the  precedence  to  be  observed 
in  going  out  to  supper,  she  resolved  to  have  tea  served 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  to  make  it  literally  tea, 
with  bread  and  butter,  and  some  thin,  ascetic  cakes. 

However  sharp  he  was  in  business,  Mr.  Witherby 
was  socially  a  dull  man ;  and  his  wife  and  daughter 
seemed  to  partake  of  his  qualities  by  affinition  and 
heredity.  They  tried  to  make  something  of  Marcia, 
but  they  failed  through  their  want  of  art.  Mrs. 
Witherby,  finding  the  wife  of  her  husband's  assistant 
in  Miss  Kingsbury's  house,  conceived  an  awe  of  her, 
which  Marcia  would  not  have  known  how  to  abate  if 
she  had  imagined  it ;  and  in  a  little  while  the  With- 
erby family  segregated  themselves  among  the  photo- 
graph albums  and  the  bricabrac,  from  which  Clara 
seemed  to  herself  to  be  fruitlessly  detaching  them  the 
who/e  evening.  The  plainest  daughter  and  the  maiden 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  257 

aunt  of  the  patrician  families  talked  to  each  other 
with  unavailing  intervals  of  the  painter  and  the  an- 
thor,  and  the  radical  clergyman  and  his  wife  were  in 
danger  of  a  conjugal  devotion  which  society  does  not 
favor;  the  unfashionable  sister  of  the  fashionable 
artist  conversed  with  the  young  tutor  and  the  Japa- 
nese law-student  whom  he  had  asked  leave  to  bring 
with  him,  and  whose  small,  mouse-like  eyes  contin- 
ually twinkled  away  in  pursuit  of  the  blonde  beauty 
of  his  hostess.  The  widow  was  winningly  attentive, 
with  a  tendency  to  be  confidential,  to  everybody. 
The  Italian  could  not  disabuse  himself  of  the  notion 
that  he  was  expected  to  be  light  and  cheerful,  and 
when  the  pupil  of  the  Conservatory  sang,  he  aban- 
doned himself  to  his  error,  and  clapped  and  cried 
bravo  with  unseemly  vivacity.  But  he  was  restored 
to  reason  when  the  composer  sat  down  at  the  piano 
and  played,  amid  the  hush  that  falls  on  society  at 
such  times,  something  from  Beethoven,  and  again 
something  of  his  own,  which  was  so  like  Beethoven 
that  Beethoven  himself  would  not  have  known  the 
difference. 

Mr.  Atherton  and  Halleck  moved  about  among 
the  guests,  and  did  their  best  to  second  Clara's  efforts 
for  their  encouragement ;  but  it  was  useless.  In  the 
desperation  which  owns  defeat,  she  resolved  to  devote 
herself  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  to  trying  to  make 
at  least  the  Hubbards  have  a  good  time ;  and  then, 
upon  the  dangerous  theory,  of  which  young  and 
pretty  hostesses  cannot  be  too  wary,  that  a  wife  is 
necessarily  flattered  by  attentions  to  her  husband,  she 
devoted  herself  exclusively  to  Bartley,  to  whom  she 
talked  long  and  with  a  reckless  liveliness  of  the  events 
of  his  former  stay  in  Boston.  Their  laughter  and 
scraps  of  their  reminiscence  reached  Marcia  where 
she  sat  in  a  feint  of  listening  to  Ben  Halleck's  per- 
functory account  of  his  college  days  with  her  hus- 

17 


258  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

band,  till  she  could  bear  it  no  longer.  She  rose 
abruptly,  and,  going  to  him,  she  said  that  it  was  time 
to  say  good-night.  "  Oh,  so  soon  !  "  cried  Clara,  mys- 
tified and  a  little  scared  at  the  look  she  saw  on  Mar- 
cia's  face.  "  Good  night,"  she  added  coldly. 

The  assembly  hailed  this  first  token  of  its  disinte- 
gration with  relief ;  it  became  a  little  livelier ;  there 
was  a  fleeting  moment  in  which  it  seemed  as  if  it 
might  yet  enjoy  itself ;  but  its  chance  passed ;  it 
crumbled  rapidly  away,  and  Clara  was  left  looking 
humbly  into  Olive  Halleck's  pitiless  eyes.  "  Thank 
you  for  a  delightful  evening,  Miss  Kingsbury  !  Con- 
gratulate you!"  she  mocked,  with  an  unsparing 
laugh.  "  Such  a  success  !  But  why  did  n't  you  give 
them  something  to  eat,  Clara  ?  Those  poor  Hubbards 
have  a  one-o'clock  dinner,  and  I  famished  for  them. 
I  was  n't  hungry  myself,  —  we  have  a  two-o'clock 
dinner ! " 


A  MODEBN   INSTANCE.  259 


XXII. 

BARTLEY  came  home  elate  from  Miss  Kingsbury'g 
entertainment.  It  was  something  like  the  social 
success  which  he  used  to  picture  to  himself.  He  had 
been  flattered  by  the  attention  specially  paid  him, 
and  he  did  not  detect  the  imposition.  He  was  half 
starved,  but  he  meant  to  have  up  some  cold  meat  and 
bottled  beer,  and  talk  it  all  over  with  Marcia. 

She  did  not  seem  inclined  to  talk  it  over  on  their 
way  home,  and  when  they  entered  their  own  door,  she 
pushed  in  and  ran  up-stairs.  "  Why,  where  are  you 
going,  Marcia  ?  "  he  called  after  her. 

"  To  bed ! "  she  replied,  closing  the  door  after  her 
with  a  crash  of  unmistakable  significance. 

Bartley  stood  a  moment  in  the  fury  that  tempted 
him  to  pursue  her  with  a  taunt,  and  then  leave  her  to 
work  herself  out  of  the  transport  of  senseless  jeal- 
ousy she  had  wrought  herself  into.  But  he  set  his 
teeth,  and,  full  of  inward  cursing,  he  followed  her 
up-stairs  with  a  slow,  dogged  step.  He  took  her  in 
his  arms  without  a  word,  and  held  her  fast,  while  his 
anger  changed  to  pity,  and  then  to  laughing.  When 
it  came  to  that,  she  put  up  her  arms,  which  she  had 
kept  rigidly  at  her  side,  and  laid  them  round  his 
neck,  and  began  softly  to  cry  on  his  breast. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  myself  at  all,  any  more!"  she 
moaned  penitently. 

"Then  this  is  very  improper  —  for  me,"  said 
Bartley. 

The  helpless  laughter  broke  through  her  lamenta- 


260  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

tion,  but  she  cried  a  little  more  to  keep  herself  in 
countenance. 

"  But  I  guess,  from  a  previous  acquaintance  with 
the  party's  character,  that  it 's  really  all  you,  Marcia. 
I  don't  blame  you.  Miss  Kings bury's  hospitality  has 
left  me  as  hollow  as  if  I  'd  had  nothing  to  eat  for  a 
week;  and  I  know  you're  perishing  from  inanition. 
Hence  these  tears." 

It  delighted  her  to  have  him  make  fun  of  Miss 
Kingsbury's  tea,  and  she  lifted  her  head  to  let  him 
see  that  she  was  laughing  for  pleasure  now,  before 
she  turned  away  to  dry  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  poor  fellow  ! "  she  cried.  "  I  did  pity  you  so 
when  I  saw  those  mean  little  slices  of  bread  and  but- 
ter coming  round !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Bartley,  "  I  felt  sorry  myself.  But 
don't  speak  of  them  any  more,  dearest." 

"And  I  suppose,"  pursued  Marcia,  "that  all  the 
time  she  was  talking  to  you  there,  you  were  simply 
ravening." 

"  I  was  casting  lots  in  my  own  mind  to  see  which 
of  the  company  I  should  devour  first." 

His  drollery  appeared  to  Marcia  the  finest  that 
ever  was  ;  she  laughed  and  laughed  again  ;  when  he 
made  fun  of  the  conjecturable  toughness  of  the  elderly 
aristocrat,  she  implored  him  to  stop  if  he  did  not 
want  to  kill  her.  Marcia  was  not  in  the  state  in 
which  woman  best  convinces  her  enemies  of  her  fit- 
ness for  empire,  though  she  was  charming  in  her  silly 
happiness,  and  Bartley  felt  very  glad  that  he  had  not 
yielded  to  his  first  impulse  to  deal  savagely  with  her. 
"  Come,"  he  said,  "  let  us  go  out  somewhere,  and  get 
some  oysters." 

She  began  at  once  to  take  out  her  ear-rings  and 
loosen  her  hair.  "  No,  I  '11  get  something  here  in  the 
house ;  I  'm  not  very  hungry.  But  you  go,  Bartley, 
and  have  a  good  supper,  or  you  '11  be  sick  to-morrow, 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  261 

and  not  fit  to  work.  Go,"  she  added  to  his  hesitat- 
ing image  in  the  glass,  "  I  insist  upon  it.  I  won't  have 
you  stay."  His  reflected  face  approached  from  be- 
hind ;  she  turned  hers  a  little,  and  their  mirrored  lips 
met  over  her  shoulder.  "  Oh,  how  sweet  you  are, 
Bartley  ! "  she  murmured. 

"  Yes,  you  will  always  find  me  obedient  when  com- 
manded to  go  out  and  repair  my  wasted  tissue." 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  dear,"  she  said  softly.  "  I  mean 
—  your  not  quarrelling  with  me  when  I  'm  unreason- 
able. Why  can't  we  always  do  so  ! " 

"  Well,  you  see,"  said  Bartley,  "  it  throws  the  whole 
burden  on  the  fellow  in  his  senses.  It  does  n't  require 
any  great  degree  of  self-sacrifice  to  fly  off  at  a  tan- 
gent, but  it 's  rather  a  maddening  spectacle  to  the 
party  that  holds  on." 

"  Now  I  will  show  you,"  said  Marcia,  "  that  I  can 
be  reasonable  too  :  I  shall  let  you  go  alone  to  make 
our  party  call  on  Miss  Kmgsbury."  She  looked  at 
him  heroically. 

"  Marcia,"  said  Bartley,  "  you  're  such  a  reasonable 
person  when  you're  the  most  unreasonable,  that  I 
wonder  I  ever  quarrel  with  you.  I  rather  think  I'll 
let  you  call  on  Miss  Kingsbury  alone.  I  shall  suffer 
agonies  of  suspicion,  but  it  will  prove  that  I  have 
perfect  confidence  in  you."  He  threw  her  a  kiss  from 
the  door,  and  ran  down  the  stairs.  When  he  returned, 
an  hour  later,  he  found  her  waiting  up  for  him.  "  Why, 
Marcia  ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Oh  !  I  just  wanted  to  say  that  we  will  both  go  to 
?all  on  her  very  soon.  If  I  sent  you,  she  might  think 
\  was  mad,  and  I  won't  give  her  that  satisfaction." 

"  Noble  girl ! "  cried  Bartley,  with  irony  that  pleased 
her  better  than  praise.  Women  like  to  be  understood, 
4ven  when  they  try  not  to  be  understood. 

When  Marcia  went  with  Bartley  to  call,  Miss 
Kingsbury  received  her  with  careful,  perhaps  anxious 


262  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

politeness,  but  made  no  further  effort  to  take  her  up 
Some  of  the  people  whom  Marcia  met  at  Miss  Kings* 
bury's  called;  and  the  Witherbys  came,  father,  mother, 
and  daughter  together ;  but  between  the  evident  fact 
that  the  Hubbards  were  poor,  and  the  other  evident 
fact  that  they  moved  in  the  best  society,  the  Wither- 
bys did  not  quite  know  what  to  do  about  them. 
They  asked  them  to  dinner,  and  Bartley  went  alone ; 
Marcia  was  not  well  enough  to  go. 

He  was  very  kind  and  tractable,  now,  and  went 
whenever  she  bade  him  go  without  her,  though  tea  at 
the  Hallecks  was  getting  to  be  an  old  story  with  him, 
and  it  was  generally  tea  at  the  Hallecks  to  which  she 
sent  him.  The  Halleck  ladies  came  faithfully  to  see 
her,  and  she  got  on  very  well  with  the  two  older 
sisters,  who  gave  her  all  the  kindness  they  could  spare 
from  their  charities,  and  seemed  pleased  to  have  her 
so  pretty  and  conjugal,  though  these  things  were  far 
from  them.  But  she  was  afraid  of  Olive  at  first,  and 
disliked  her  as  a  friend  of  Miss  Kingsbury.  This 
rather  attracted  the  odd  girl.  What  she  called  Mar- 
cia's  snubs  enabled  her  to  declare  in  her  favor  with 
a  sense  of  disinterestedness,  and  to  indulge  her  re- 
pugnance for  Bartley  with  a  good  heart.  She  resented 
his  odious  good  looks,  and  held  it  a  shame  that  her 
mother  should  promote  his  visible  tendency  to  stout- 
ness by  giving  him  such  nice  things  for  tea. 

"  Now,  I  like  Mr.  Hubbard,"  said  her  mother  placid- 
ly. "  It 's  very  kind  of  him  to  come  to  such  plain 
folks  as  we  are,  whenever  we  ask  him ;  now  that  his 
wife  can't  come,  I  know  he  does  it  because  he  likes 
us." 

"  Oh,  he  comes  for  the  eating,"  said  Olive,  scorn- 
fully. Then  another  phase  of  her  mother's  remark 
struck  her :  "  Why,  mother  ! "  she  cried,  "  I  do  believf 
you  think  Bartley  Hubbard 's  a  distinguished  man. 
somehow ! " 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  263 

' -'Your  father  says  it's  very  unusual  for  such  a 
young  man  to  be  in  a  place  like  his.  Mr.  Witherby 
really  leave?  everything  to  him,  he  says." 

"  Well,  I  think  he  'd  better  not,  then  !  The  Events 
has  got  to  be  perfectly  horrid,  of  late.  It 's  full  of 
murders  and  all  uncleanness." 

"  That  seems  to  be  the  way  with  the  papers,  now- 
adays. Your  father  hears  that  the  Events  is  making 
money." 

"  Why,  mother !  What  a  corrupt  old  thing  you 
are  !  I  believe  you  've  been  bought  up  by  that  dis- 
gusting interview  with  father.  Nestor  of  the  Leather 
Interest !  Father  ought  to  have  turned  him  out  of 
doors.  Well,  this  family  is  getting  a  little  too  good, 
for  me !  And  Ben 's  almost  as  bad  as  any  of  you, 
of  late,  —  I  have  n't  a  bit  of  influence  with  him  any 
more.  He  seems  determined  to  be  friendlier  with 
that  person  than  ever ;  he 's  always  trying  to  do  him 
good, —  I  can  see  it,  and  it  makes  me  sick.  One 
thing  I  know :  I  'm  going  to  stop  Mr.  Hubbard  's 
calling  me  Olive.  Impudent !  " 

Mrs.  Halleck  shifted  her  ground  with  the  pretence 
which  women  use,  even  amongst  themselves,  of 
having  remained  steadfast.  "  He  is  a  very  good  hus- 
band." 

"  Oh,  because  he  likes  to  be  ! "  retorted  her  daugh- 
ter. "  Nothing  is  easier  than  to  be  a  good  husband." 

"  Ah,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Halleck,  "  wait  till  you 
have  tried." 

This  made  Olive  laugh ;  but  she  answered  with  an 
urgument  that  always  had  weight  with  her  mother, 
"  Ben  does  n't  think  he 's  a  good  husband." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so,  Olive  1 "  asked  hei 
mother. 

"  I  know  he  dislikes  him  intensely." 

"  Why,  you  just  said  yourself,  dear,  that  he  was 
friendlier  with  him  than  ever." 


264  A   MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  Oh,  that 's  nothing.     The  more  he  disliked 
the  kinder  he  would  be  to  him." 

"  That 's  true,"  sighed  her  mother.  "  Did  he  evei 
say  anything  to  you  about  him  ? " 

"No,"  cried  Olive,  shortly;  "he  never  speaks  of 
people  he  does  n't  like." 

The  mother  returned,  with  logical  severity,  "  All 
that  does  n't  prove  that  Ben  thinks  he  is  n't  a  good 
husband." 

"  He  dislikes  him.  Do  you  believe  a  bad  man  can 
be  a  good  husband,  then  ? " 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Halleck  admitted,  as  if  confronted  with 
indisputable  proof  of  Bartley's  wickedness. 

In  the  mean  time  the  peace  between  Bartley  and 
Marcia  continued  unbroken,  and  these  days  of  wait- 
ing, of  suffering,  of  hoping  and  dreading,  were  the 
happiest  of  their  lives.  He  did  his  best  to  be  patient 
with  her  caprices  and  fretfulness,  and  he  was  at 
least  manfully  comforting  and  helpful,  and  instant 
in  atonement  for  every  failure.  She  said  a  thousand 
times  that  she  should  die  without  him;  and  when 
her  time  came,  he  thought  that  she  was  going  to  die 
before  he  could  tell  her  of  his  sorrow  for  all  that  he 
had  ever  done  to  grieve  her.  He  did  not  tell  her, 
though  she  lived  to  give  him  the  chance;  but  he 
took  her  and  her  baby  both  into  his  arms,  with  tears 
of  as  much  fondness  as  ever  a  man  shed.  He  even 
began  his  confession ;  but  she  said,  "  Hush !  you 
never  did  a  wrong  thing  yet  that  I  did  n't  drive  you 
to."  Pale  and  faint,  she  smiled  joyfully  upon  him, 
and  put  her  hand  on  his  head  when  he  hid  his  face 
against  hers  on  the  pillow,  and  put  her  lips  against 
his  cheek.  His  heart  was  full ;  he  was  grateful  foi 
the  mercy  that  had  spared  him  ;  he  was  so  strong  in 
his  silent  repentance  that  he  felt  like  a  good  man. 

"  Bartley,"  she  said,  "  I  'in  going  to  ask  a  great 
favor  of  you." 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  265 

"There's  nothing  that  I  can  do  that  /  shall  think 
i  favor,  darling ! "  he  cried,  lifting  his  face  to  look 
into  hers. 

"  Write  for  mother  to  come.     I  want  her ! " 

"  Why,  of  course."  Marcia  continued  to  look  at 
him,  and  kept  the  quivering  hold  she  had  laid  of  his 
hand  when  he  raised  his  head.  "  Was  that  all  ?  " 

She  was  silent,  and  he  added,  "  I  will  ask  your 
father  to  come  with  her." 

She  hid  her  face  for  the  space  of  one  sob.  "I 
wanted  you  to  offer." 

"  Why,  of  course  !  of  course  ! "  he  replied. 

She  did  not  acknowledge  his  magnanimity  directly, 
but  she  lifted  the  coverlet  and  showed  him  the  little 
head  on  her  arm,  and  the  little  creased  and  crumpled 
face. 

"  Pretty  ? "  she  asked.  "  Bring  me  the  letter  be- 
fore you  send  it.  —  Yes,  that  is  just  right,  —  perfect ! " 
she  sighed,  when  he  came  back  and  read  the  letter  to 
her ;  and  she  fell  away  to  happy  sleep. 

Her  father  answered  that  he  would  come  with  he*, 
mother  as  soon  as  he  got  the  better  of  a  cold  he  had 
taken.  It  was  now  well  into  the  winter,  and  the 
journey  must  have  seemed  more  formidable  in  Equity 
than  in  Boston.  But  Bartley  was  not  impatient  of 
his  father-in-law's  delay,  and  he  set  himself  cheerfully 
about  consoling  Marcia  for  it.  She  stole  her  white, 
thin  hand  into  his,  and  now  and  then  gave  it  a  little 
pressure  to  accent  the  points  she  made  in  talking. 

"  Father  was  the  first  one  I  thought  of  —  after 
you,  Bartley.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  baby  came  half 
to  show  me  how  unfeeling  I  had  been  to  him.  Of 
course,  I'm  not  sorry  I  ran  away  and  asked  you  to 
take  me  back,  for  I  could  n't  have  had  you  if  I  had  n't 
done  it ;  but  I  never  realized  before  how  cruel  it  wag 
to  father.  He  always  made  such  a  pet  of  me  ;  and  J 
know  that  he  thought  he  was  acting  for  the  best." 


266  A   MODEKtf  INSTANCE. 

"  I  knew  that  you  were,"  said  Bartley,  fervently. 

"  What  sweet  things  you  always  say  to  me  ! "  she 
murmured.  "  But  don't  you  see,  Bartley,  that  I  did  n't 
think  enough  of  him  ?  That 's  what  baby  seems  to 
have  come  to  teach  me."  She  pulled  a  little  away 
on  the  pillow,  so  as  to  fix  him.  more  earnestly  with 
her  eyes.  "  If  baby  should  behave  so  to  you  when 
she  grew  up,  I  should  hate  her  ! " 

He  laughed,  and  said,  "  Well,  perhaps  your  mother 
hates  you." 

"  No,  they  don't  —  either  of  them,"  answered  Mar- 
cia,  with  a  sigh.  "  And  I  behaved  very  stiffly  and 
coldly  with  him  when  he  came  up  to  see  me,  —  more 
than  I  had  any  need  to.  I  did  it  for  your  sake  ;  but 
he  did  n't  mean  any  harm  to  you,  he  just  wanted  to 
make  sure  that  I  was  safe  and  well." 

" Oh,  that's  all  right,  Marsh." 

"  Yes,  I  know.     But  what  if  he  had  died ! " 

"  Well,  he  did  n't  die,"  said  Bartley,  with  a  smile. 
"  And  you  've  corresponded  with  them  regularly,  ever 
•since,  and  you  know  they  Ve  been  getting  along  all 
right.  And  it 's  going  to  be  altogether  different  from 
this  out,"  he  added,  leaning  back  a  little  weary  with 
a  matter  in  which  he  could  not  be  expected  to  take  a 
very  cordial  interest. 

"  Truly  ? "  she  asked,  with  one  of  the  eagerest  of 
those  hand-pressures. 

"  It  won't  be  my  fault  if  it  is  n't,"  he  replied,  with 
a  yawn. 

"How  good  you  are,  Bartley!"  she  said,  with  an 
admiring  look,  as  if  it  were  the  goodness  of  God  she 
was  praising. 

Bartley  released  himself,  and  went  to  the  new  crib; 
in  which  the  baby  lay,  and  with  his  hands  in  hi& 
pockets  stood  looking  down  at  it  with  a  curious 
smile. 

"  Is  it  pretty  ? "  she  asked,  envious  of  his  bird's-eye 
view  of  the  baby. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  267 

definitively  so,"  he  answered.  "  I  dare  say 
she  will  smooth  out  in  time;  but  she  seems  to  be 
considerably  puckered  yet." 

"  Well,"  returned  Marcia,  with  forced  resignation, 
''  I  should  n't  let  any  one  else  say  so." 

Her  husband  set  up  a  soft,  low,  thoughtful  whis- 
tle. "  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Marcia,"  he  said  presently. 
"  Suppose  we  name  this  baby  after  your  father  ? " 

She  lifted  herself  on  her  elbow,  and  stared  at  him 
as  if  he  must  be  making  fun  of  her.  "  Why,  how 
could  we  ? "  she  demanded.  Squire  Gaylord's  parents 
had  called  his  name  Flavius  Josephus,  in  a  supersti- 
tion once  cherished  by  old-fashioned  people,  that  the 
Jewish  historian  was  somehow  a  sacred  writer. 

"  We  can't  name  her  Josephus,  but  we  can  call  her 
Flavia,"  said  Bartley.  "And  if  she  makes  up  her 
mind  to  turn  out  a  blonde,  the  name  will  just  fit. 
Flavia,  —  it 's  a  very  pretty  name."  He  looked  at  his 
wife,  who  suddenly  turned  her  face  down  on  the 
pillow. 

"Bartley  Hubbard,"  she  cried,  "you're  the  best 
man  in  the  world  ! " 

"  Oh,  no !  Only  the  second-best,"  suggested  Bartley. 

In  these  days  they  took  their  fill  of  the  delight  of 
young  fatherhood  and  motherhood.  After  its  morn- 
ing bath  Bartley  was  called  in,  and  allowed  to  revere 
the  baby's  mottled  and  dimpled  back  as  it  lay  face 
downward  on  the  nurse's  lap,  feebly  wiggling  its  arms 
and  legs,  and  responding  with  ineffectual  little  sighs 
and  gurgles  to  her  acceptable  rubbings  with  warm 
flannel.  When  it  was  fully  dressed,  and  its  long 
clothes  pulled  snugly  down,  and  its  limp  person  stif- 
fened into  something  tenable,  he  was  suffered  to  take 
it  into  his  arms,  and  to  walk  the  room  with  it.  After 
all,  there  is  not  much  that  a  man  can  actually  do 
with  a  small  baby,  either  for  its  pleasure  or  his  own, 
and  BaKley's  usefulness  had  its  strict  limitation* 


268  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

He  was  perhaps  most  beneficial  when  he  put  the  child 
in  its  mother's  arms,  and  sat  down  beside  the  bed, 
and  quietly  talked,  while  Marcia  occasionally  put  up 
a  slender  hand,  and  smoothed  its  golden  brown  hair, 
bending  her  neck  over  to  look  at  it  where  it  lay,  with 
the  action  of  a  mother  bird.  They  examined  with 
minute  interest  the  details  of  the  curious  little  crea- 
ture :  its  tiny  finger-nails,  fine  and  sharp,  and  its 
small  queer  fist  doubled  so  tight,  and  closing  on  one's 
finger  like  a  canary's  claw  on  a  perch  ;  the  absurdity 
of  its  foot,  the  absurdity  of  its  toes,  the  ridiculous  in- 
adequacy of  its  legs  and  arms  to  the  work  ordinarily 
expected  of  legs  and  arms,  made  them  laugh.  They 
could  not  tell  yet  whether  its  eyes  would  be  black 
like  Marcia's,  or  blue  like  Bartley's  ;  those  long  lashes 
had  the  sweep  of  hers,  but  its  mop  of  hair,  which 
made  it  look  so  odd  and  old,  was  more  like  his  in 
color. 

"  She  will  be  a  dark-eyed  blonde,"  Bartley  decided. 

"  Is  that  nice  ? "  asked  Marcia. 

"  With  the  telescope  sight,  they  're  warranted  to 
kill  at  five  hundred  yards." 

"  Oh,  for  shame,  Bartley  !  To  talk  of  baby's  ever 
killing!" 

"  Why,  that 's  what  they  all  come  to.  It 's  what 
you  came  to  yourself." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  it 's  quite  another  thing  with 
baby."  She  began  to  mumble  it  with  her  lips,  and 
to  talk  baby-talk  to  it.  In  their  common  interest  in 
this  puppet  they  already  called  each  other  papa  and 
mamma. 

Squire  Gaylord  came  alone,  and  when  Marcia 
greeted  him  with  "  Why,  father  !  Where 's  mother  ? " 
he  asked,  "  Did  you  expect  her  ?  Well,  I  guess  your 
mother's  feeling  rather  too  old  for  such  long  winter 
journeys.  You  know  she  don't  go  out  a  great  deal 
/guess  she  expects  your  family  down  there  in  the 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  269 

The  old  man  was  considerably  abashed  by  the  baby 
when  it  was  put  into  his  arms,  and  being  required  to 
guess  its  name  he  naturally  failed. 

"  Flavia  ! "  cried  Marcia,  joyfully.  "  Bartley  named 
it  after  you." 

This  embarrassed  the  Squire  still  more.  "Is  that 
so  ? "  he  asked,  rather  sheepishly.  "  Well,  it 's  quite 
a  compliment." 

Marcia  repeated  this  to  her  husband  as  evidence 
that  her  father  was  all  right  now.  Bartley  and  the 
Squire  were  in  fact  very  civil  to  each  other ;  and 
Bartley  paid  the  old  man  many  marked  attentions. 
lie  took  him  to  the  top  of  the  State  House,  and 
walked  him  all  about  the  city,  to  show  him  its 
points  of  interest,  and  introduced  him  to  such  of 
his  friends  as  they  met,  though  the  Squire's  dress- 
coat,  whether  fully  revealed  by  the  removal  of  his 
surtout,  or  betraying  itself  below  the  skirt  of  the  lat- 
ter, was  a  trial  to  a  fellow  of  Bartley's  style.  He  went 
with  his  father-in-law  to  see  Mr.  Warren  in  Jefferson 
Scattering  Batkins,  and  the  Squire  grimly  appreciated 
the  burlesque  of  the  member  from  Cranberry  Centre; 
but  he  was  otherwise  not  a  very  amugable  person,  and 
off  his  own  ground  he  was  not  conversable,  while  he 
refused  to  betray  his  impressions  of  many  things  that 
Bartley  expected  to  astonish  him.  The  Events  edito- 
rial rooms  had  no  apparent  effect  upon  him,  though 
they  were  as  different  from  most  editorial  dens  as  tap- 
estry carpets,  black-walnut  desks,  and  swivel  chairs 
could  make  them.  Mr.  Witherby  covered  him  with 
urbanities  and  praises  of  Bartley  that  ought  to  have 
delighted  him  as  a  father-in-law ;  but  apparently  the 
great  man  of  the  Events  was  but  a  strange  variety  of 
the  type  with  which  he  was  familiar  in  the  despised 
country  editors.  He  got  on  better  with  Mr.  Atherton, 
who  was  of  a  man's  profession.  The  Squire  wore  his 
hf».t  throughout  their  interview,  and  everywhere  ex» 


270  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

cept  at  table  and  in  bed ;  and  as  soon  as  he  rose  from 
either,  he  put  it  on. 

Bartley  tried  to  impress  him  with  such  novel  traits 
of  cosmopolitan  life  as  a  table  d'hote  dinner  at  a 
French  restaurant;  but  the  Squire  sat  through  the 
courses,  as  if  his  barbarous  old  appetite  had  satisfied 
itself  in  that  manner  all  his  life.  After  that,  Bartley 
practically  gave  him  up ;  he  pleaded  his  newspaper 
work,  and  left  the  Squire  to  pass  the  time  as  he  could 
in  the  little  house  on  Clover  Street,  where  he  sat  half  a 
day  at  a  stretch  in  the  parlor,  with  his  hat  on,  reading 
the  newspapers,  his  legs  sprawled  out  towards  the 
grate.  In  this  way  he  probably  reconstructed  for 
himself  some  image  of  his  wonted  life  in  his  office 
at  home,  and  was  for  the  time  at  peace ;  but  other- 
wise he  was  very  restless,  except  when  he  was  with 
Marcia.  He  was  as  fond  of  her  in  his  way  as  he 
had  ever  been,  and  though  he  apparently  cared  noth- 
ing for  the  baby,  he  enjoyed  Marcia's  pride  in  it ; 
and  he  bore  to  have  it  thrust  upon  him  with  the 
surly  mildness  of  an  old  dog  receiving  children's 
caresses.  He  listened  with  the  same  patience  to  all 
her  celebrations  of  Bartley,  which  were  often  tedious 
enough,  for  she  bragged  of  him  constantly,  of  his 
smartness  and  goodness,  and  of  the  great  success 
that  had  crowned  the  merit  of  both  in  him. 

Mr.  Halleck  had  called  upon  the  Squire  the  morn- 
ing after  his  arrival,  and  brought  Marcia  a  note  from 
his  wife,  offering  to  have  her  father  stay  with  them 
if  she  found  herself  too  much  crowded  at  this  event- 
ful  time.  "  There  !  That  is  just  the  sort  of  people 
the  Hallecks  are ! "  she  cried,  showing  the  letter  to 
her  father.  "And  to  think  of  our  not  going  near  them 
for  months  and  months  after  we  came  to  Boston,  for 
fear  they  were  stuck  up  !  But  Bartley  is  always  jusi 
BO  proud.  Now  you  must  go  right  in,  father,  and  not 
keep  Mr.  Halleck  waiting.  Give  nie  your  hat,  01 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  271 

you  '11  be  sure  to  wear  it  in  the  parlor."  She  made 
him  stoop  down  to  let  her  brush  his  coat-collar  a 
little.  "  There  !  Now  you  look  something  like." 

Squire  Gaylord  had  never  received  a  visit  except 
on  business  in  his  life,  and  such  a  thing  as  one  man 
calling  socially  upon  another,  as  women  did,  was  un- 
known to  the  civilization  of  Equity.  But,  as  he  re- 
ported to  Marcia,  he  got  along  with  Mr.  Halleck  ; 
and  he  got  along  with  the  whole  family  when  he 
went  with  Bartley  to  tea,  upon  the  invitation  Mr. 
Halleck  made  him  that  morning.  Probably  it  ap- 
peared to  him  an  objectless  hospitality  ;  but  he  spent 
as  pleasant  an  evening  as  he  could  hope  to  spend 
with  his  hat  off  and  in  a  frock-coat,  which  he  wore 
as  a  more  ceremonious  garment  than  the  dress-coat 
of  his  every-day  life.  He  seemed  to  take  a  special 
liking  to  Olive  Halleck,  whose  habit  of  speaking  her 
mind  with  vigor  and  directness  struck  him  as  com- 
mendable. It  was  Olive  who  made  the  time  pass  for 
him ;  and  as  the  occasion  was  not  one  for  personal 
sarcasm  or  question  of  the  Christian  religion,  her 
task  in  keeping  the  old  pagan  out  of  rather  abysmal 
silences  must  have  had  its  difficulties. 

"  What  did  you  talk  about  ? "  asked  Marcia,  requir- 
ing an  account  of  his  enjoyment  from  him  the  next 
morning,  after  Bartley  had  gone  down  to  his  work. 

"  Mostly  about  you,  I  guess,"  said  the  Squire,  with 
a  laugh.  "There  was  a  large  sandy-haired  young 
woman  there — " 

"  Miss  Kingsbury,"  said  Marcia,  with  vindictive 
promptness.  Her  eyes  kindled,  and  she  began  to 
grow  rigid  under  the  coverlet.  "  Whom  did  she  talk 
with  ? " 

"  Well,  she  talked  a  little  with  me ;  but  she  talked 
most  of  the  time  to  the  young  man.  She  engaged  to 
him  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Marcia,  relaxing.     "  She 's  a  great  friend 


272  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

of  the  whole  family.     I  don't  know  what  they  meant 
by  telling  you  it  was  to  be  just  a  family  party,  when 
they  were  going  to  have  strangers  in,"  she  pouted. 
"  Perhaps  they  did  n't  count  her. " 

"No."  But  Marcia's  pleasure  in  the  affair  was 
tainted,  and  she  began  to  talk  of  other  things. 

Her  father  stayed  nearly  a  week,  and  they  all  found 
it  rather  a  long  week.  After  showing  him  her  baby, 
and  satisfying  herself  that  he  and  Bartley  were  on 
good  terms  again,  there  was  not  much  left  for  Marcia. 
Bartley  had  been  banished  to  the  spare  room  by  the 
presence  of  the  nurse ;  and  he  gave  up  his  bed  there 
to  the  Squire,  and  slept  on  a  cot  in  the  unfurnished 
attic  room  ;  the  cook  and  a  small  girl  got  in  to  help, 
had  the  other.  The  house  that  had  once  seemed  so 
vast  was  full  to  bursting. 

"  I  never  knew  how  little  it  was  till  I  saw  your 
father  coming  down  stairs,"  said  Bartley.  "  He 's  too 
tall  for  it.  When  he  sits  on  the  sofa,  and  stretches 
out  his  legs,  his  boots  touch  the  mop-board  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room.  Fact !  " 

"  He  won't  stay  over  Sunday,"  began  Marcia,  with 
a  rueful  smile. 

"  Why,  Marcia,  you  don't  think  I  want  him  to  go  ! " 

"  No,  you  're  as  good  as  can  be  about  it.  But  I 
hope  he  won't  stay  over  Sunday." 

"  Have  n't  you  enjoyed  his  visit  ?  "  asked  Bartley. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  've  enjoyed  it."  The  tears  came  into 
her  eyes.  "  I  've  made  it  all  up  with  father ;  and  he 
does  n't  feel  hard  to  me.  But,  Bartley  —  Sit  down, 
dear,  here  on  the  bed  ! "  She  took  his  hand  and 
gently  pulled  him  down.  "  I  see  more  and  more  that 
lather  and  mother  can  never  be  what  they  used  to  be 
to  me,  —  that  you  're  all  the  world  to  me.  Yes,  my 
life  is  broken  off  from  theirs  forever.  Could  any- 
thing break  it  off  from  yours  ?  You  '11  always  be 
|>atient  with  me,  won't  you  ?  and  remember  that  I  'd 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  273 

fclways  rather  be  good  when  I'm  behaving  the 
worst  ? " 

He  rose,  and  went  over  to  the  crib,  and  kissed  the 
head  of  their  little  girl.  "  Ask  Flavia,"  he  said  from 
the  door. 

"  Bartley  ! "  she  cried,  in  utter  fondness,  as  he  van- 
ished from  her  happy  eyes. 

The  next  morning  they  heard  the  Squire  moving 
about  in  his  room,  and  he  was  late  in  coming  down 
to  breakfast,  at  which  he  was  ordinarily  so  prompt. 
"  He  's  packing,"  said  Marcia,  sadly.  "  It 's  dreadful 
to  be  willing  to  have  him  go  ! " 

Bartley  went  out  and  met  him  at  his  door,  bag  in 
hand.  "  Hollo  ! "  he  cried,  and  made  a  decent  show 
of  surprise  and  regret. 

"  M-yes ! "  said  the  old  man,  as  they  went  down 
stairs.  "  I  've  made  out  a  visit.  But  I  'm  an  old 
fellow,  and  I  ain't  easy  away  from  home.  I  shall  tell 
Mis'  Gay  lord  how  you  're  gettin'  along,  and  she  '11  be 
pleased  to  hear  it.  Yes,  she  11  be  pleased  to  hear  it. 
I  guess  I  shall  get  off  on  the  ten-o'clock  train." 

The  conversation  between  Bartley  and  his  father- 
in-law  was  perfunctory.  Men  who  have  dealt  so 
plainly  with  each  other  do  not  assume  the  conven- 
tional urbanities  in  their  intercourse  without  effort. 
They  had  both  been  growing  more  impatient  of  the 
restraint;  they  could  not  have  kept  it  up  much 
longer. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it 's  natural  you  should  want  to 
be  home  again,  but  I  can't  understand  how  any  one 
can  want  to  go  back  to  Equity  when  he  has  the  priv- 
ilege of  staying  in  Boston." 

"  Boston  will  do  for  a  young  man,"  said  the  Squire, 
"  but  I  'm  too  old  for  it.  The  city  cramps  me ;  it 's 
too  tight  a  fit ;  and  yet  I  can't  seem  to  find  myself 
in  it." 

He  suffered  from  the  loss  of  identity  which  is  a 

18 


274  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

common  affliction  with  country  people  coming  to 
town.  The  feeling  that  they  are  of  no  special  inter- 
est to  any  of  the  thousands  they  meet  bewilders  and 
harasses  them ;  after  the  searching  neighborhood  of 
village  life,  the  fact  that  nobody  would  meddle  in 
their  most  intimate  affairs  if  they  could,  is  a  vague 
distress.  The  Squire  not  only  experienced  this,  but, 
after  reigning  so  long  as  the  censor  of  morals  and 
religion  in  Equity,  it  was  a  deprivation  for  him  to 
pass  a  whole  week  without  saying  a  bitter  thing 
to  any  one.  He  was  tired  of  the  civilities  that 
smoothed  him  down  on  every  side. 

"  Well,  if  you  must  go,"  said  Bartley,  "  I  '11  order  a 
hack." 

"  I  guess  I  can  walk  to  the  depot,"  returned  the  old 
man. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  can't."  Bartley  drove  to  the  station 
with  him,  and  they  bade  each  other  adieu  with  a 
hand-shake.  They  were  no  longer  enemies,  but  they 
liked  each  other  less  than  ever. 

"  See  you  in  Equity  next  summer,  I  suppose  ? " 
suggested  the  Squire. 

"So  Marcia  says,"  replied  Bartley.  "Well,  take 
care  of  yourself.  —  You  confounded,  tight-fisted  old 
woodchuck ! "  he  added  under  his  breath,  for  the 
Squire  had  allowed  him  to  pay  the  hack  fare. 

He  walked  home,  composing  variations  on  his  part- 
ing malison,  to  find  that  the  Squire  had  profited  by  his 
brief  absence  while  ordering  the  hack,  to  leave  with 
Marcia  a  silver  cup,  knife,  fork,  and  spoon,  which 
Olive  Halleck  had  helped  him  choose,  for  the  baby. 
In  the  cup  was  a  check  for  five  hundred  dollars.  The 
Squire  was  embarrassed  in  presenting  the  gifts,  and 
when  Marcia  turned  upon  him  with,  "  Now,  look 
here,  father,  what  do  you  mean  ? "  he  was  at  a  loss 
how  to  explain. 

"  Well,  it 's  what  I  always  meant  to  do  for  you." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  275 

"  Baby's  things  are  all  right,"  said  Marcia.  "  Bui 
I  'm  not  going  to  let  Bartley  take  any  money  from 
you,  unless  you  think  as  well  of  him  as  I  do,  and 
say  so,  right  out." 

The  Squire  laughed.  "  You  could  n't  quite  expect 
me  to  do  that,  could  you  ? " 

"  No,  of  course  not.  But  what  I  mean  is,  do  you 
think  now  that  I  did  right  to  marry  him  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  're  all  right,  Marcia.  I  'm  glad  you  're 
getting  along  so  well." 

"  No,  no  !     Is  Bartley  all  right  ?  " 

The  Squire  laughed  again,  and  rubbed  his  chin  in 
enjoyment  of  her  persistence.  "  You  can't  expect  me 
to  own  up  to  everything  all  at  once." 

"So  you  see,  Bartley,"  said  Marcia,  in  repeating 
these  words  to  him,  "  it  was  quite  a  concession." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  the  concession,  but  I 
guess  there's  no  doubt  about  the  check,"  replied 
Bartley. 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,  dear ! "  protested  his  wife. 
"  I  think  father  was  pleased  with  his  visit  every  way. 
I  know  he 's  been  anxious  about  me,  all  the  time ; 
and  yet  it  was  a  good  deal  for  him  to  do,  after  what 
he  had  said,  to  come  down  here  and  as  much  as  take 
it  all  back.  Can't  you  look  at  it  from  his  side  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  it  was  a  dose,"  Bartley  admitted. 
The  money  had  set  several  things  in  a  better  light. 
"  If  all  the  people  that  have  abused  me  would  take  it 
back  as  handsomely  as  your  father  has,"  —  he  held 
the  check  up,  —  "  why,  I  wish  there  were  twice  as 
many  of  them." 

She  laughed  for  pleasure  in  his  joke.  "  I  think 
father  was  impressed  by  everything  about  us,  —  be- 
ginning with  baby,"  she  said,  proudly. 

"  Well,  he  kept  his  impressions  to  himself." 

"  Oh,  that 's  nothing  but  his  way.  He  never  wai 
demonstrative,  —  like  me." 


276  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  No,  he  has  his  emotions  under  control,  —  not  to 
say  under  lock  and  key,  —  not  to  add,  in  irons." 

Bartley  went  on  to  give  some  instances  of  the 
Squire's  fortitude  when  apparently  tempted  to  ex- 
press pleasure  or  interest  in  his  Boston  experiences. 

They  both  undeniably  felt  freer  now  that  he  was 
gone.  Bartley  stayed  longer  than  he  ought  from  his 
work,  in  tacit  celebration  of  the  Squire's  departure, 
and  they  were  very  merry  together ;  but  wher*  he 
left  her,  Marcia  called  for  her  baby,  and,  gathering  it 
close  to  her  heart,  sighed  over  it>  "  Poor  father  1  poor 
father!" 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  277 


XXIII. 

WHEN  the  spring  opened,  Bartley  pushed  Flavia 
about  the  sunny  pavements  in  a  baby  carriage,  while 
Marcia  paced  alongside,  looking  in  under  the  calash 
top  from  time  to  time,  arranging  the  bright  afghan, 
and  twitching  the  little  one's  lace  hood  into  place. 
They  never  noticed  that  other  perambulators  were 
pushed  by  Irish  nurse-girls  or  French  bonnes;  they 
had  paid  somewhat  more  than  they  ought  for  theirs, 
and  they  were  proud  of  it  merely  as  a  piece  of  prop- 
erty. It  was  rather  Bartley's  ideal,  as  it  is  that  of 
most  young  American  fathers,  to  go  out  with  his  wife 
and  baby  in  that  way ;  he  liked  to  have  his  friends 
see  him ;  and  he  went  out  every  afternoon  he  could 
spare.  When  he  could  not  go,  Marcia  went  alone. 
Mrs.  Halleck  had  given  her  a  key  to  the  garden,  and 
on  pleasant  mornings  she  always  found  some  of  the 
family  there,  when  she  pushed  the  perambulator  up 
the  path,  to  let  the  baby  sleep  in  the  warmth  and 
silence  of  the  sheltered  place.  She  chatted  with 
Olive  or  the  elder  sisters,  while  Mrs.  Halleck  drove 
Cyrus  on  to  the  work  of  tying  up  the  vines  and 
trimming  the  shrubs,  with  the  pitiless  rigor  of  women 
when  they  get  a  man  about  some  outdoor  labor. 
Sometimes,  Ben  Halleck  was  briefly  of  the  party; 
and  one  morning  when  Marcia  opened  the  gate,  she 
found  him  there  alone  with  Cyrus,  who  was  busy 
at  some  belated  tasks  of  horticulture.  The  young 
man  turned  at  the  unlocking  of  the  gate,  and  saw 
Marcia  lifting  the  front  wheels  of  the  perambulatoi 


278  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

to  get  it  over  the  steps  of  the  pavement  outside.  He 
limped  hastily  down  the  walk  to  help  her,  but  she 
had  the  carriage  in  the  path  before  he  could  reach 
her,  and  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  back  at  its 
side,  as  she  propelled  it  towards  the  house.  "You 
see  what  a  useless  creature  a  cripple  is,"  he  said. 

Marcia  did  not  seem  to  have  heard  him.  "  Is  your 
mother  at  home  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  think  she  is,"  said  Halleck.  "  Cyrus,  go  in  and 
tell  mother  that  Mrs.  Hubbard  is  here,  won't  you  ? " 

Cyrus  went,  after  a  moment  of  self-respectful  de- 
lay, and  Marcia  sat  down  on  a  bench  under  a  pear- 
tree  beside  the  walk.  Its  narrow  young  leaves  and 
blossoms  sprinkled  her  with  shade  shot  with  vivid 
sunshine,  and  in  her  light  dress  she  looked  like  a 
bright,  fresh  figure  from  some  painter's  study  of  spring. 
She  breathed  quickly  from  her  exertion,  and  her 
cheeks  had  a  rich,  dewy  bloom.  She  had  pulled  the 
perambulator  round  so  that  she  might  see  her  baby 
while  she  waited,  and  she  looked  at  the  baby  now, 
and  not  at  Halleck,  as  she  said,  "  It  is  quite  hot  in 
the  sun  to-day."  She  had  a  way  of  closing  her  lips, 
after  speaking,  in  that  sweet  smile  of  hers,  and  then 
of  glancing  sidelong  at  the  person  to  whom  she  spoke. 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Halleck,  who  remained  on 
foot.  "  But  I  have  n't  been  out  yet.  I  gave  myself 
a  day  off  from  the*  Law  School,  and  I  had  n't  quite 
decided  what  to  do  with  it." 

Marcia  leaned  forward,  and  brushed  a  tendril  of  the 
baby's  hair  out  of  its  eye.  "  She 's  the  greatest  little 
sleeper  that  ever  was  when  she  gets  into  her  car- 
riage," she  half  mused,  leaning  back  with  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  and  setting  her  head  on  one  side 
for  the  effect  of  the  baby  without  the  stray  ringlet. 
"  She 's  getting  so  fat ! "  she  said,  proudly. 

Halleck  smiled.  "  Do  you  find  it  makes  a  differ- 
ence in  pushing  her  carriage,  from  day  to  day  ?  " 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  279 

Marcia  took  his  question  in  earnest,  as  she  must 
take  anything  but  the  most  obvious  pleasantry  con- 
cerning her  baby.  "  The  carriage  runs  very  easily  ; 
we  j?»<>ked  out  the  lightest  one  we  could,  and  I  never 
have  any  trouble  with  it,  except  getting  up  curb- 
stones and  crossing  Cambridge  Street.  I  don't  like 
to  cross  Cambridge  Street,  there  are  always  so  many 
horse-cars.  But  it's  all  down-hill  coming  here; 
that 's  one  good  thing." 

"That  makes  it  a  very  bad  thing  going  home, 
though,"  said  Halleck. 

"  Oh,  I  go  round  by  Charles  Street,  and  come  up  the 
hill  from  the  other  side ;  it  is  n't  so  steep  there." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said  upon  this  point,  and 
in  the  lapse  of  their  talk  Halleck  broke  off  some 
boughs  of  the  blooming  pear,  and  dropped  them  on 
the  baby's  afghan. 

"Your  mother  won't  like  your  spoiling  her  pear- 
Jree,"  said  Marcia,  seriously. 

"  She  will  when  she  knows  that  I  did  it  for  Miss 
Hubbard." 

"  Miss  Hubbard  ! "  repeated  the  young  mother,  and 
she  laughed  in  fond  derision.  "  How  funny  to  hear 
you  saying  that !  I  thought  you  hated  babies  ! " 

Halleck  looked  at  her  with  strong  self-disgust,  and 
he  dropped  the  bough  which  he  had  in  his  hand  upon 
the  ground.  There  is  something  in  a  young  man's 
ideal  of  women,  at  once  passionate  and  ascetic,  so 
flue  that  any  words  are  too  gross  for  it.  The  event 
which  intensified  the  interest  of  his  mother  and  sis. 
ters  in  Marcia  had  abashed  Halleck ;  when  she  came 
so  proudly  to  show  her  baby  to  them  all,  it  seemed  to 
him  like  a  mockery  of  his  pity  for  her  captivity  to 
the  love  that  profaned  her.  He  went  out  of  the  room 
in  angry  impatience,  which  he  could  hardly  hide, 
when  one  of  his  sisters  tried  to  make  him  take  the 
baby.  Little  by  little  his  compassion  adjusted  itself 


280  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

to  the  new  conditions ;  it  accepted  the  child  as  an 
element  of  her  misery  in  the  future,  when  she  must- 
realize  the  hideous  deformity  of  her  marriage.  His 
prophetic  feeling  of  this,  and  of  her  inaccessibility  to 
human  help  here  and  hereafter,  made  him  sometimes 
afraid  of  her ;  but  all  the  more  severely  he  exacted  of 
his  ideal  of  her  that  she  should  not  fall  beneath  the 
tragic  dignity  of  her  fate  through  any  levity  of  her 
own.  Now,  at  her  innocent  laugh,  a  subtile  irrever- 
ence, which  he  was  not  able  to  exorcise,  infused  itself 
into  his  sense  of  her. 

He  stood  looking  at  her,  after  he  dropped  the  pear- 
bough,  and  seeing  her  mere  beauty  as  he  had  never 
seen  it  before.  The  bees  hummed  in  the  blossoms, 
which  gave  out  a  dull,  sweet  smell ;  the  sunshine  had 
the  luxurious,  enervating  warmth  of  spring.  He 
started  suddenly  from  his  reverie :  Marcia  had  said 
something.  "  I  beg  your  pardon  ? "  he  queried. 

"Oh,  nothing.  I  asked  if  you  knew  where  I  went 
to  church  yesterday  ? " 

Halleck  flushed,  ashamed  of  the  wrong  his  thoughts, 
or  rather  his  emotions,  had  done.  "  No,  I  don't,"  he 
answered. 

"  I  was  at  your  church." 

"  I  ought  to  have  been  there  myself,"  he  returned, 
gravely,  "  and  then  I  should  have  known." 

She  took  his  self-reproach  literally.  "  You  could  n't 
have  seen  me.  I  was  sitting  pretty  far  back,  and  I 
went  out  before  any  of  your  family  saw  me.  Don't 
you  go  there  ? " 

"  Not  always,  I  'm  sorry  to  say.  Or,  rather,  I  'm 
sorry  not  to  be  sorry.  What  church  do  you  generally 
go  to  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  to  one,  and  some- 
times to  another.  Bartley  used  to  report  the  ser- 
mons, and  we  went  round  to  all  the  churches  then. 
That  is  the  way  1  did  at  home,  and  it  came  natural  to, 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  281 

me.  But  I  don't  like  it  very  well.  I  want  Flavia 
phould  belong  to  some  particular  church." 

"  There  are  enough  to  choose  from,"  said  Halleck, 
with  pensive  sarcasm. 

"  Yes,  that 's  the  difficulty.  But  I  shall  make  up 
my  mind  to  one  of  them,  and  then  I  shall  always 
keep  to  it.  What  I  mean  is  that  I  should  like  to  find 
out  where  most  of  the  good  people  belong,  and  then 
have  her  be  with  them,"  pursued  Marcia.  "  I  think 
it 's  best  to  belong  to  some  church,  don't  you  ? " 

There  was  something  so  bare,  so  spiritually  poverty- 
stricken,  in  these  confessions  and  questions,  that  Hal- 
leek  found  nothing  to  say  to  them.  He  was  troubled, 
moreover,  as  to  what  the  truth  was  in  his  own  mind. 
He  answered,  with  a  sort  of  mechanical  adhesion  to 
the  teachings  of  his  youth,  "  I  should  be  a  recreant 
not  to  think  so.  But  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  know  what 
you  mean  by  belonging  to  some  church,"  he  added. 
"  I  suppose  you  would  want  to  believe  in  the  creed  of 
the  church,  whichever  it  was." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  should  be  particular,"  said 
Marcia,  with  perfect  honesty. 

Halleck  laughed  sadly.  "I'm  afraid  they  would, 
then,  unless  you  joined  the  Broad  Church." 

"What  is  that?"  He  explained  as  well  as  he 
could.  At  the  end  she  repeated,  as  if  she  had  not 
followed  him  very  closely :  "  I  should  like  her  to 
belong  to  the  church  where  most  of  the  good  people 
went.  I  think  that  would  be  the  right  one,  if  you 
could  only  find  which  it  is."  Halleck  laughed  again. 
*  I  suppose  what  I  say  must  sound  very  queer  to  you  ; 
but  I  Ve  been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  this  lately." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Halleck.  "I  had  no 
reason  to  laugh,  either  on  your  account  or  my  own. 
It 's  a  serious  subject."  She  did  not  reply,  and  he 
asked,  as  if  she  had  left  the  subject,  "  Do  you  intend 
to  pass  the  summer  in  Boston  ? " 


282  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  No ;  I  'm  going  down  home  pretty  early,  and  1 
wanted  to  ask  your  mother  what  is  the  best  way  tc 
put  away  my  winter  things." 

"  You  '11  find  my  mother  very  good  authority  on 
such  matters,"  said  Halleck.  Through  an  obscure 
association  with  moths  that  corrupt,  he  added,  "  She 's 
a  good  authority  on  church  matters,  too." 

"  I  guess  I  shall  talk  with  her  about  Flavia,"  said 
Marcia. 

Cyrus  came  out  of  the  house.  "  Mis'  Halleck  will 
be  here  in  a  minute.  She  's  got  to  get  red  of  a  lady 
that 's  calling,  first,"  he  explained. 

"  I  will  leave  you,  then,"  said  Halleck,  abruptly. 

•'Good  by,"  answered  Marcia,  tranquilly.  The 
baby  stirred ;  she  pushed  the  carriage  to  and  fro, 
without  glancing  after  him  as  he  walked  away. 

His  mother  came  down  the  steps  from  the  house, 
and  kissed  Marcia  for  welcome,  and  looked  under  the 
carriage-top  at  the  sleeping  baby.  "How  she  does 
sleep  !  "  she  whispered. 

"  Yes,"  said  Marcia,  with  the  proud  humility  of  a 
mother,  who  cannot  deny  the  merit  of  her  child,  "  and 
she  sleeps  the  whole  night  through.  I  'm  never  up 
with  her.  Bartley  says  she 's  a  perfect  Seven-Sleeper. 
It 's  a  regular  joke  with  him,  —  her  sleeping." 

"  Ben  was  a  good  baby  for  sleeping,  too,"  said  Mrs. 
Halleck,  retrospectively  emulous.  "  It 's  one  of  the 
best  signs.  It  shows  that  the  child  is  strong  and 
healthy."  They  went  on  to  talk  of  their  children, 
and  in  their  community  of  motherhood  they  spoke  of 
the  young  man  as  if  he  were  still  an  infant.  "  He 
has  never  been  a  moment's  care  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Hal- 
leck. "A  well  baby  will  be  well  even  in  teething." 

"  And  I  had  somehow  thought  of  him  as  sickly !  * 
said  Marcia,  in  self-derision. 

Tears  of  instant  intelligence  sprang  into  his  moth- 
er's eyes.  "And  did  you  suppose  he  was  always 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  283 

lame  ? "  she  demanded,  with  gentle  indignation.  "  He 
was  the  brightest  and  strongest  boy  that  ever  was,  till 
he  was  twelve  years  old.  That 's  what  makes  it  so 
hard  to  bear ;  that 's  what  makes  me  wonder  at  the 
way  the  child  bears  it !  Did  you  never  hear  how  it 
happened  ?  One  of  the  big  boys,  as  he  called  him, 
tripped  him  up  at  school,  and  he  fell  on  his  hip.  It 
kept  him  in  bed  for  a  year,  and  he 's  never  been  the 
same  since ;  he  will  always  be  a  cripple,"  grieved  the 
mother.  She  wiped  her  eyes  ;  she  never  could  think 
of  her  boy's  infirmity  without  weeping.  "  And  what 
seemed  the  worst  of  all,"  she  continued,  "  was  that 
the  boy  who  did  it  never  expressed  any  regret  for  it, 
or  acknowledged  it  by  word  or  deed,  though  he  must 
have  known  that  Ben  knew  who  hurt  him.  He  's  a 
man  here,  now ;  and  sometimes  Ben  meets  him.  But 
Ben  always  says  that  he  can  stand  it,  if  the  other  one 
can.  He  was  always  just  so  from  the  first !  He 
wouldn't  let  us  blame  the  boy;  he  said  that  he 
did  n't  mean  any  harm,  and  that  all  was  fair  in  play. 
And  now  he  says  he  knows  the  man  is  sorry,  and 
would  own  to  what  he  did,  if  he  did  n't  have  to  own  to 
what  came  of  it.  Ben  says  that  very  few  of  us  have 
the  courage  to  face  the  consequences  of  the  injuries 
we  do,  and  that 's  what  makes  people  seem  hard  and 
indifferent  when  they  are  really  not  so.  There ! " 
cried  Mrs.  Halleck.  "  I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to 
have  told  you  about  it ;  I  know  Ben  would  n't  like  it. 
But  I  can't  bear  to  have  any  one  think  he  was 
always  lame,  though  I  don't  know  why  I  should  n't : 
I  'm  prouder  of  him  since  it  happened  than  ever  I 
was  before.  I  thought  he  was  here  with  you,"  she 
added,  abruptly. 

"  He  went  out  just  before  you  came,"  said  Marcia, 
nodding  toward  the  gate.  She  sat  listening  to  Mrs 
Halleck's  talk  about  Ben ;  Mrs.  Halleck  took  herself 
to  task  from  time  to  time,  but  only  to  go  on  talking 


284  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

about  him  again.  Sometimes  Marcia  commented  on 
his  characteristics,  and  compared  them  with  Bartley's, 
or  with  Flavia's,  according  to  the  period  of  Ben's  life 
under  consideration. 

At  the  end  Mrs.  Halleck  said  :  "  I  have  n't  let  you 
get  in  a  word  !  Now  you  must  talk  about  your  baby. 
Dear  little  thing  !  I  feel  that  she  's  been  neglected. 
But  I  'm  always  just  so  selfish  when  I  get  to  running 
on  about  Ben.  They  all  laugh  at  me." 

"Oh,  I  like  to  hear  about  other  children,"  said 
Marcia,  turning  the  perambulator  round.  "I  don't 
think  any  one  can  know  too  much  that  has  the  care 
of  children  of  their  own."  She  added,  as  if  it  followed 
from  something  they  had  been  saying  of  vaccination, 
"  Mrs.  Halleck,  I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  getting 
Flavia  christened.  You  know  I  never  was  christened." 

"  Were  n't  you  ? "  said  Mrs.  Halleck,  with  a  dismay 
which  she  struggled  to  conceal. 

"  No,"  said  Marcia,  "  father  does  n't  believe  in  any 
of  those  things,  and  mother  had  got  to  letting  them 
go,  because  he  didn't  take  any  interest  in  them. 
They  did  have  the  first  children  christened,  but  I  was 
the  last." 

"  I  did  n't  speak  with  your  father  on  the  subject," 
faltered  Mrs.  Halleck.  "  I  did  n't  know  what  his  per- 
suasion was." 

"  Why,  father  does  n't  belong  to  any  church !  He 
believes  in  a  God,  but  he  does  n't  believe  in  the 
Bible."  Mrs.  Halleck  sank  down  on  the  garden  seat 
too  much  shocked  to  speak,  and  Marcia  continued,  "I 
don't  know  whether  the  Bible  is  true  or  not ;  but 
I've  often  wished  that  I  belonged  to  church." 

"  You  could  n't,  unless  you  believed  in  the  Bible," 
said  Mrs.  Halleck. 

"  Yes,  I  know  that.  Perhaps  I  should,  if  anybody 
proved  it  to  me.  I  presume  it  could  be  explained.  1 
never  talked  much  with  any  one  about  it.  There 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  285 

must  be  a  good  many  people  who  don't  belong  to 
church,  although  they  believe  in  the  Bible.  I  should  be 
perfectly  willing  to  try,  if  I  only  knew  how  to  begin." 

In  view  of  this  ruinous  open-miridedness,  Mrs.  Hal- 
leek  could  only  say,  "  The  way  to  begin  is  to  read  it." 

"  Well,  I  will  try.  How  do  you  know,  after  you  Ve 
become  so  that  you  believe  the  Bible,  whether  you  're 
fit  to  join  the  church  ?  " 

"  It 's  hard  to  tell  you,  my  dear.  You  have  to  feel 
first  that  you  have  a  Saviour,  —  that  you  Ve  given 
your  whole  heart  to  him,  —  that  he  can  save  you,  and 
that  no  one  else  can,  —  that  all  you  can  do  yourself 
won't  help  you.  It 's  an  experience." 

Marcia  looked  at  her  attentively,  as  if  this  were  all 
a  very  hard  saying.  "  Yes,  I  've  heard  of  that.  Some 
of  the  girls  had  it  at  school.  But  I  never  did. 
Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  don't  feel  so  anxious 
about  myself,  just  at  present,  as  I  do  about  Flavia.  I 
want  to  do  everything  I  can  for  Flavia,  Mrs.  Halleck. 
I  want  her  to  be  christened,  —  I  want  her  to  be  bap^ 
tized  into  some  church.  I  think  a  good  deal  about  it. 
I  think  sometimes,  what  if  she  should  die,  and  I 
had  n't  done  that  for  her,  when  may  be  it  was  one  of 
the  most  important  things  — "  Her  voice  shook,  and 
she  pressed  her  lips  together. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Halleck,  tenderly,  "  I  think 
it  is  the  most  important  thing." 

"But  there  are  so  many  churches,"  Marcia  re- 
sumed. "And  I  don't  know  about  any  of  them.  I 
told  Mr.  Halleck  just  now,  that  I  should  like  her  to 
belong  to  the  church  where  the  best  people  went,  if  I 
could  find  it  out.  Of  course,  it  was  a  ridiculous  way 
to  talk ;  I  knew  he  thought  so.  But  what  I  meant 
was  that  I  wanted  she  should  be  with  good  people  all 
her  life  ;  and  I  did  n't  care  what  she  believed." 

"  It 's  very  important  to  believe  the  truth,  my 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Halleck. 


286  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  But  the  truth  is  so  hard  to  be  certain  of,  and  you 
know  goodness  as  soon  as  you  see  it.  Mrs.  Halieck, 
I  '11  tell  you  what  I  want :  I  want  Flavia  should 
be  baptized  into  your  church.  Will  you  let  her  ?  " 

"  Let  her  ?  0  my  dear  child,  we  shall  be  humbly 
thankful  that  it  has  been  put  into  your  heart  to 
choose  for  her  what  we  think  is  the  true  church,"  said 
Mrs.  Halleck,  fervently. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  returned  Marcia.  "  I 
can't  tell  whether  it 's  the  true  church  or  not,  and  I 
don't  know  that  I  ever  could ;  but  I  shall  be  satisfied 

—  if  it 's  made  you  what  you  are,"  she  added,  simply. 
Mrs.  Halleck  did  not  try  to  turn  away  her  praise 

with  vain  affectations  of  humility.  "  We  try  to  do 
right,  Marcia,"  she  said.  "Whenever  we  do  it,  we 
must  be  helped  to  it  by  some  power  outside  of  our- 
selves. I  can  't  tell  you  whether  it 's  our  church : 
I'm  not  so  sure  of  that  as  I  used  to  be.  I  once 
thought  that  there  could  be  no  real  good  out  of 
it ;  but  I  can't  think  that,  any  more.  Olive  and  Ben 
are  as  good  children  as  ever  lived ;  I  know  they  won't 
be  lost ;  but  neither  of  them  belongs  to  our  church." 

"  Why,  what  church  does  he  belong  to  ? " 

"He  doesn't  belong  to  any,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Halleck,  sorrowfully. 

Marcia  looked  at  her  absently.  "  I  knew  Olive 
was  a  Unitarian  ;  but  I  thought  —  I  thought  he  — " 

"  No,  he  does  n't,"  returned  Mrs.  Halleck.  "  It  has 
been  a  great  cross  to  his  father  and  me.  He  is  a  good 
boy ;  but  we  think  the  truth  is  in  our  church  ! " 

Marcia  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  she  said,  de- 
cisively, "  Well,  I  should  like  Flavia  to  belong  to 
your  church." 

"  She  could  n't  belong  to  it  now,"  Mrs.  Halleck  ex- 
plained. "  That  would  have  to  come  later,  when  she 
could  understand.  But  she  could  be  christened  in  it 

—  dear  little  thing .'  " 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  287 

"  Well,  christened,  then.  It  must  be  the  training 
he  got  in  it.  I've  thought  a  great  deal  about  it, 
and  I  think  my  worst  trouble  is  that  I  Ve  been  left 
too  free  in  everything.  One  must  n't  be  left  too  free. 
1  Ve  never  had  any  one  to  control  me,  and  now  I 
can't  control  myself  at  the  very  times  when  I  need  to 
do  it  the  most,  with  —  with  —  When  I  'm  in  danger 
of  vexing  —  When  Bartley  and  I  —  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Halleck,  sympathetically. 

"And  Bartley  is  just  so,  too.  He's  always  been 
left  to  himself.  And  Flavia  will  need  all  the  con- 
trol we  can  give  her, —  I  know  she  will.  And  I 
shall  have  her  christened  in  your  church,  and  I  shall 
teach  her  all  about  it.  She  shall  go  to  the  Sunday 
school,  and  I  will  go  to  church,  so  that  she  can  have 
an  example.  I  told  father  I  should  do  it  when  he 
was  up  here,  and  he  said  there  could  n't  be  any  harm 
in  it.  And  I  Ve  told  Bartley,  and  he  does  n't  care." 

They  were  both  far  too  single-minded  and  too 
serious  to  find  anything  droll  in  the  terms  of  the  ad- 
hesion of  Marcia's  family  to  her  plan,  and  Mrs.  Hal- 
leck entered  into  its  execution  with  affectionate  zeal. 

"  Ben,  dear,"  she  said,  tenderly,  that  evening,  when 
they  were  all  talking  it  over  in  the  family  council, "  I 
hope  you  did  n't  drop  anything,  when  that  poor  crea- 
ture spoke  to  you  about  it  this  morning,  that  could 
unsettle  her  mind  in  any  way  ? " 

"  No,  mother,"  said  Halleck,  gently. 

"I  was  sure  you  didn't,"  returned  his  mother, 
repentantly. 

They  had  been  talking  a  long  time  of  the  matter, 
and  Halleck  now  left  the  room. 

"Mother!  How  could  you  say  such  a  thing  to 
Ben  ? "  cried  Olive,  in  a  quiver  of  indignant  sympa- 
thy. "  Ben  say  anything  to  unsettle  anybody's  re- 
ligious purposes  !  He 's  got  more  religion  now  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  family  put  together ! " 


288  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  Olive,"  said  one  of  the  inter- 
mediary sisters. 

"  Why,  Olive,  I  spoke  because  I  thought  she  seemed 
to  place  more  importance  on  Ben's  belonging  to  the 
church  than  anything  else,  and  she  seemed  so  sur- 
prised when  I  told  her  he  did  n't  belong  to  any." 

"  I  dare  say  she  thinks  Ben  is  good  when  she  com* 
pares  him  with  that  mass  of  selfishness  of  a  husband 
of  hers,"  said  Olive.  "  But  I  will  thank  her,"  she 
added,  hotly,  "not  to  compare  Ben  with  Bartley 
Hubbard,  even  to  Bartley  Hubbard's  disadvantage. 
I  don't  feel  flattered  by  it." 

"Of  course  she  thinks  all  the  world  of  her  hus- 
band," said  Mrs.  Halleck.  "And  I  know  Ben  is 
good ;  and,  as  you  say,  he  is  religious ;  I  feel  that, 
though  I  don't  understand  how,  exactly.  I  would  n't 
hurt  his  feelings  for  the  world,  Olive,  you  know  well 
enough.  But  it  was  a  stumbling-block  when  I  had 
to  tell  that  poor,  pretty  young  thing  that  Ben  did  n't 
belong  to  church;  and  I  could  see  that  it  puzzled 
her.  I  could  n't  have  believed,"  continued  Mrs.  Hal- 
leck, "  that  there  was  any  person  in  a  Christian  land, 
except  among  the  very  lowest,  that  seemed  to  under- 
stand so  little  about  the  Christian  religion,  or  any 
scheme  of  salvation.  Eeally,  she  talked  to  me  like  a 
pagan.  She  sat  there  much  better  dressed  and  better 
educated  than  I  was;  but  I  felt  like  a  missionary 
talking  to  a  South  Sea  Islander. 

"  I  wonder  the  old  Bartlett  pear  did  n't  burst  into  a. 
palm-tree  over  your  heads,"  said  Olive.  Mrs.  Halleck 
looked  grieved  at  her  levity,  and  Olive  hastened  to 
add :  "  Don't  take  it  to  heart,  mother !  I  understood 
jast  what  you  meant,  and  I  can  imagine  just  how 
shocking  Mrs.  Hubbard's  heathen  remarks  must  have 
been.  We  should  all  be  shocked  if  we  knew  how 
many  people  there  were  like  her,  and  we  should  all 
try  to  deny  it,  and  so  would  they.  I  guess  ChrifiK 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  289 

tianity  is  about  as  uncommon  as  civilization,  —  and 
that 's  mry  uncommon.  If  her  poor,  feeble  mind  was 
such  a  chaos,  what  do  you  suppose  her  husband's  is  ? " 

This  would  certainly  not  have  been  easy  for  Mrs. 
Halleck  to  say  then,  or  to  say  afterward,  when  Bartley 
walked  up  to  the  font  in  her  church,  with  Marcia  at 
his  side,  and  Flavia  in  his  arms,  and  a  faintly  ironical 
smile  on  his  face,  as  if  he  had  never  expected  to  be 
got  in  for  this,  but  was  going  to  see  it  through  now. 
He  had,  in  fact,  said, "  Well,  let 's  go  the  whole  figure," 
when  Marcia  had  expressed  a  preference  for  having  the 
rite  performed  in  church,  instead  of  in  their  own  house. 

He  was  unquestionably  growing  stout,  and  even 
Mrs.  Halleck  noticed  that  his  blonde  face  was  un- 
pleasantly red  that  day.  He  was,  of  course,  not 
intemperate.  He  always  had  beer  with  his  lunch, 
which  he  had  begun  to  take  down  town  since  the 
warm  weather  had  come  on  and  made  the  walk  up 
the  hill  to  Clover  Street  irksome :  and  he  drank  beer 
at  his  dinner, — he  liked  a  late  dinner,  and  they  dined 
at  six,  now,  —  because  it  washed  away  the  fatigues  of 
the  day,  and  freshened  you  up.  He  was  rather  par- 
ticular about  his  beer,  which  he  had  sent  in  by  the 
gross,  —  it  came  cheaper  that  way ;  after  trying  both 
the  Cincinnati  and  the  Milwaukee  lagers,  and  making 
a  cursory  test  of  the  Boston  brand,  he  had  settled 
down  upon  the  American  tivoli;  it  was  cheap,  and 
you  could  drink  a  couple  of  bottles  without  feeling 
it.  Freshened  up  by  his  two  bottles,  he  was  apt  to 
spend  the  evening  in  an  amiable  drowse  and  get  early 
to  bed,  when  he  did  not  go  out  on  newspaper  duty. 
He  joked  about  the  three  fingers  of  fat  on  his  ribs, 
and  frankly  guessed  it  was  the  beer  that  did  it ;  at 
such  times  he  said  that  perhaps  he  should  have  to  cut 
down  on  his  tivoli. 

Marcia  and  he  had  not  so  much  time  together  as 
they  used  to  have;  she  was  a  great  deal  taken  up 

19 


290  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

with  the  baby,  and  he  found  it  dull  at  home,  not 
doing  any  tiling  or  saying  anything ;  and  when  he  did 
not  feel  sleepy,  he  sometimes  invented  work  that 
took  him  out  at  night.  But  he  always  came  upstairs 
after  putting  his  hat  on,  and  asked  Marcia  if  he 
could  help  her  about  anything. 

He  usually  met  other  newspaper  men  on  these 
excursions,  and  talked  newspaper  with  them,  airing 
his  favorite  theories.  He  liked  to  wander  about  with 
reporters  who  were  working  up  cases ;  to  look  in  at 
tbe  police  stations,  and  go  to  the  fires ;  and  he  was 
often  able  to  give  the  Events  men  points  that  had 
escaped  the  other  reporters.  If  asked  to  drink,  he 
always  said,  "Thanks,  no;  I  don't  do  anything  in 
that  way.  But  if  you  11  make  it  beer,  I  don't  mind." 
He  took  nothing  but  beer  when  he  hurried  out  of  the 
theatre  into  one  of  the  neighboring  resorts,  just  as  the 
great  platters  of  stewed  kidneys  and  lyonnaise  pota- 
toes came  steaming  up  out  of  the  kitchen,  prompt  to 
tbe  drop  of  the  curtain  on  the  last  act.  Here,  some- 
times, he  met  a  friend,  and  shared  with  him  his  dish 
of  kidneys  and  his  schooner  of  beer ;  and  he  once 
suffered  himself  to  be  lured  by  the  click  of  the  balls 
into  the  back  room.  He  believed  that  he  played  a 
very  good  game  of  billiards ;  but  he  was  badly  beaten 
that  night.  He  carne  home  at  daylight,  fifty  dollars 
out.  But  he  had  lost  like  a  gentleman  in  a  game 
with  gentlemen ;  and  he  never  played  again. 

By  day  he  worked  hard,  and  since  his  expenses  had 
been  increased  by  Flavia's  coming,  he  had  undertaken 
more  work  for  more  pay.  He  still  performed  all  the 
routine  labor  of  a  managing  editor,  and  he  now  wrote 
the  literary  notices  of  the  Events,  and  sometimes, 
especially  if  there  was  anything  new,  the  dramatic 
criticisms;  he  brought  to  the  latter  task  all  the 
freshness  of  a  man  who,  till  the  year  before,  had  Dot 
been  half  a  dozen  times  inside  a  theatre. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  291 

He  attributed  the  fat  on  his  ribs  to  the  tivoli; 
perhaps  it  was  also  owing  in  some  degree  to  a  good 
conscience,  which  is  a  much  easier  thing  to  keep  than 
people  imagine.  At  any  rate,  he  now  led  a  tranquil, 
industrious,  and  regular  life,  and  a  life  which  suited 
him  so  well  that  he  was  reluctant  to  interrupt  it  by 
the  visit  to  Equity,  which  he  and  Marcia  had  talked 
of  in  the  early  spring.  He  put  it  off  from  time  to 
time,  and  one  day  when  she  was  pressing  him  to 
fix  some  date  for  it  he  said,  "Why  can't  you  go, 
Marcia  ? " 

"  Alone  ? "  she  faltered. 

"  Well,  no ;  take  the  baby,  of  course.  And  I  '11  run 
down  for  a  day  or  two  when  I  get  a  chance." 

Marcia  seemed  in  these  days  to  be  schooling  her- 
self against  the  impulses  that  once  brought  on  her 
quarrels  with  Bartley.  "  A  day  or  two  —  "  she  be- 
gan, and  then  stopped  and  added  gravely,  "  I  thought 
you  said  you  were  going  to  have  several  weeks' 
vacation." 

"  Oh,  don 't  tell  me  what  I  said  I "  cried  Bartley. 
"  That  was  before  I  undertook  this  extra  work,  or  be- 
fore I  knew  what  a  grind  it  was  going  to  be.  Equity 
is  a  good  deal  of  a  dose  for  me,  any  way.  It 's  all 
well  enough  for  you,  and  I  guess  the  change  from 
Boston  will  do  you  good,  and  do  the  baby  good,  but 
/  should  n't  look  forward  to  three  weeks  in  Equity 
with  unmitigated  hilarity." 

"  I  know  it  will  be  stupid  for  you.  But  you  need 
the  rest.  And  the  Hallecks  are  going  to  be  at  North 
Conway,  and  they  said  they  would  come  over,"  urged 
Marcia.  "  I  know  we  should  have  a  good  time." 

Bartley  grinned.  "Is  that  your  idea  of  a  good 
time,  Marsh  ?  Three  weeks  of  Equity,  relieved  by  a 
visit  from  such  heavy  weights  as  Ben  Halleck  and  his 
sisters  ?  Not  any  in  mine,  thank  you." 

"  How  can  you  —  how  dare  you  speak  of  them  so !" 


292  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

cried  Marcia  lightening  upon  him.  "Such  good 
friends  of  yours  —  such  good  people  —  "  Her  voice 
shook  with  indignation  and  wounded  feeling. 

Bartley  rose  and  took  a  turn  about  the  room,  pull- 
ing down  his  waistcoat  and  contemplating  its  outward 
slope  with  a  smile.  "  Oh,  I  've  got  more  friends  than 
I  can  shake  a  stick  at.  And  with  pleasure  at  the 
helm,  goodness  is  a  drug  in  the  market,  —  if  you'll 
excuse  the  mixed  metaphor.  Look  here,  Marcia,"  he 
added,  severely.  "  If  you  like  the  Hallecks,  all  well  and 
good  ;  I  sha'n't  interfere  with  you ;  but  they  bore  me. 
I  outgrew  Ben  Halleck  years  ago.  He 's  duller  than 
death.  As  for  the  old  people,  there's  no  harm  in 
them,  —  though  they're  bores,  too,  —  nor  in  the  old 
girls ;  but  Olive  Halleck  does  n't  treat  me  decently. 
I  suppose  that  just  suits  you :  I  Ve  noticed  that  you 
never  like  the  women  that  do  treat  me  decently." 

"  They  don't  treat  me  decently ! "  retorted  Marcia. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Kingsbury  treated  you  very  well  that 
night.  She  could  n't  imagine  your  being  jealous  of 
her  politeness  to  me." 

Marcia's  temper  fired  at  his  treacherous  recurrence 
to  a  grievance  which  he  had  once  so  sacredly  and 
sweetly  ignored.  "  If  you  wish  to  take  up  bygones, 
why  don't  you  go  back  to  Hannah  Morrison  at  once  ? 
She  treated  you  even  better  than  Miss  Kingsbury." 

"  I  should  have  been  very  willing  to  do  that,"  said 
Bartley,  "but  I  thought  it  might  remind  you  of  a 
disagreeable  little  episode  in  your  own  life,  when  you 
flung  me  away,  and  had  to  go  down  on  your  knees  to 
pick  me  up  again." 

These  thrusts  which  they  dealt  each  other  in  their 
quarrels,  however  blind  and  misdirected,  always 
reached  their  hearts:  it  was  the  wicked  will  that 
hurt,  rather  than  the  words.  Marcia  rose,  bleeding 
inwardly,  and  her  husband  felt  the  remorse  of  a  man 
who  gets  the  best  of  it  in  such  an  encounter. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  293 

*  Oh,  I  'm  sorry  I  said  that,  Marcia !  I  did  'nt  mean 
jt ;  indeed  I  —  "  She  disdained  to  heed  him,  as  she 
swept  out  of  the  room,  and  up  the  stairs ;  and  his 
anger  flamed  out  again. 

"  I  give  you  fair  warning,"  he  called  after  her,  "not 
to  try  that  trick  of  locking  the  door,  or  I  will  smash 
it  in." 

Her  answer  was  to  turn  the  key  in  the  door  with  a 
click  which  he  could  not  fail  to  hear. 

The  peace  in  which  they  had  been  living  of  late 
was  very  comfortable  to  Bartley ;  he  liked  it ;  he  hated 
to  have  it  broken ;  he  was  willing  to  do  what  he  could 
to  restore  it  at  once.  If  he  had  no  better  motive  than 
this,  he  still  had  this  motive ;  and  he  choked  down 
his  wrath,  and  followed  Marcia  softly  upstairs.  He 
intended  to  reason  with  her,  and  he  began,  "  I  say, 
Marsh,"  as  he  turned  the  door-knob.  But  you  cannot 
reason  through  a  keyhole,  and  before  he  knew  he 
found  himself  saying, "  Will  you  open  this  ?"  in  a  tone 
whose  quiet  was  deadly.  She  did  not  answer;  he 
heard  her  stop  in  her  movements  about  the  room, 
and  wait,  as  if  she  expected  him  to  ask  again.  He 
hesitated  a  moment  whether  to  keep  his  threat  of 
breaking  the  door  in ;  but  he  turned  away  and  went 
down  stairs,  and  so  into  the  street.  Once  outside, 
he  experienced  the  sense  of  release  that  comes  to 
a  man  from  the  violation  of  his  better  impulses ;  but 
he  did  not  know  what  to  do  or  where  to  go.  He 
walked  rapidly  away;  but  Marcia's  eyes  and  voice 
seemed  to  follow  him,  and  plead  with  him  for  his  for- 
bearance. But  he  answered  his  conscience,  as  if  it 
had  been  some  such  presence,  that  he  had  forborne  too 
much  already,  and  that  now  he  should  not  humble 
himself ;  that  he  was  right  and  should  stand  upon  his 
right.  There  was  not  much  comfort  in  it,  and  he  had 
to  brace  himself  again  and  again  with  vindictive 
resolution. 


294  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 


XXIV. 

BARTLEY  walked  about  the  streets  for  a  long  time, 
without  purpose  or  direction,  brooding  fiercely  on  his 
wrongs,  and  reminding  himself  how  Marcia  had  deter- 
mined to  have  him,  and  had  indeed  flung  herself  upon 
his  mercy,  with  all  sorts  of  good  promises ;  and  had 
then  at  once  taken  the  whip-hand,  and  goaded  and  tor- 
mented him  ever  since.  All  the  kindness  of  their  corn- 
man  life  counted  for  nothing  in  this  furious  reverie,  or 
rather  it  was  never  once  thought  of;  he  cursed  himself 
for  a  fool  that  he  had  ever  asked  her  to  marry  him, 
and  for  doubly  a  fool  that  he  had  married  her  when 
she  had  as  good  as  asked  him.  He  was  glad,  now, 
that  he  had  taunted  her  with  that ;  he  only  regretted 
that  he  had  told  her  he  was  sorry.  He  was  presently 
aware  of  being  so  tired  that  he  could  scarcely  pull 
one  leg  after  another ;  and  yet  he  felt  hopelessly  wide 
awake.  It  was  in  simple  despair  of  anything  else  to 
do  that  he  climbed  the  stairs  to  Eicker's  lofty  perch 
in  the  Chronicle- Abstract  office.  Kicker  turned  about 
as  he  entered,  and  stared  up  at  him  from  beneath  the 
green  pasteboard  visor  with  which  he  was  shielding  his 
eyes  from  the  gas ;  his  hair,  which  was  of  the  harsh- 
ness and  color  of  hay,  was  stiffly  poked  up  and  strewn 
about  on  his  skull,  as  if  it  were  some  foreign  product. 

"  Hello ! "  he  said  "  Going  to  issue  a  morning 
edition  of  the  Events  ? " 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  supposed  you  evening-paper  gents  went  to 
bed  with  the  hens.  What  has  kept  you  up,  esteemed 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  295 

contemporary  ? "  He  went  on  working  over  some  de- 
spatches which  lay  upon  his  table. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  come  out  and  have  some  oys- 
ters ? "  asked  Bartley. 

"  Why  this  princely  hospitality  ?  I  '11  come  with 
you  in  half  a  minute,"  Bicker  said,  going  to  the  slide 
that  carried  up  the  copy  to  the  composing-room  and 
thrusting  his  manuscript  into  the  box. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  he  asked,  when  they 
found  themselves  out  in  the  soft  starlit  autumnal  air ; 
and  Bartiey  answered  with  the  name  of  an  oyster- 
house,  obscure,  but  of  singular  excellence. 

"Yes,  that's  the  best  place,"  Eicker  commented. 
"  What  I  always  wonder  at  in  you.  is  the  rapidity  with 
which  you  've  taken  on  the  city.  You  were  quite  in 
the  green  wood  when  you  came  here,  and  now  you 
know  your  Boston  like  a  little  man.  I  suppose  it 's 
your  newspaper  work  that 's  familiarized  you  with  the 
place.  Well,  how  do  you  like  your  friend  Witherby, 
as  far  as  you  've  gone  ? " 

"  Oh,  we  shall  get  along,  I  guess,"  said  Bartley. 
"  He  still  keeps  me  in  the  background,  and  plays  at 
being  editor,  but  he  pays  me  pretty  well." 

"  Not  too  well,  I  hope." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him  try  it." 

"  I  should  n't,"  said  Eicker.  "  He  'd  expect  certain 
things  of  you,  if  he  did.  You  '11  have  to  look  out  for 
Witherby." 

"  You  mean  that  he 's  a  scamp  ? " 

"  No  ;  there  is  n't  a  better  conscience  than  Witherby 
carries  in  the  whole  city.  He  's  perfectly  honest.  He 
not  only  believes  that  he  has  a  right  to  run  the 
Events  in  his  way ;  but  he  sincerely  believes  that 
Ve  is  right  in  doing  it.  There 's  where  he  has  the  ad- 
vantage  of  you,  if  you  doubt  him.  I  don't  suppose  he 
ever  did  a  wrong  thing  in  his  life  ;  he  'd  persuade 
himself  that  the  thing  was  right  before  he  did  it." 


296  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  That 's  a  common  phenomenon,  is  n't  it  ? "  sneered 
Bartley.  "  Nobody  sins." 

"You're  right,  partly.  But  some  of  us  sinners 
have  our  misgivings,  and  Witherby  never  has.  You 
know  he  offered  me  your  place  ? " 

"No,  I  didn't,"  said  Bartley,  astonished  and  not 
pleased. 

"  I  thought  he  might  have  told  you.  He  made  me 
inducements ;  but  I  was  afraid  of  him :  Witherby  is 
the  counting-room  incarnate.  I  talked  you  into  him 
for  some  place  or  other ;  but  he  did  n't  seem  to  wake 
up  to  the  value  of  my  advice  at  once.  Then  I 
could  n't  tell  what  he  was  going  to  offer  you." 

"  Thank  you  for  letting  me  in  for  a  thing  you  were 
afraid  of ! " 

"I  didn't  believe  he  would  get  you  under  his 
thumb,  as  he  would  me.  You  Ve  got  more  back-bone 
than  I  have.  I  have  to  keep  out  of  temptation  ;  you 
have  noticed  that  I  never  drink,  and  I  would  rather 
not  look  upon  Witherby  when  he  is  red  and  giveth 
his  color  in  the  cup.  I  'm  sorry  if  I  Ve  let  you  in  for 
anything  that  you  regret.  But  Witherby's  sincerity 
makes  him  dangerous,  —  I  own  that." 

"  I  think  he  has  some  very  good  ideas  about  news- 
papers," said  Bartley,  rather  sulkily. 

"  Oh,  very,"  assented  Kicker.  "  Some  of  the  very 
best  going.  He  believes  that  the  press  is  a  great  moral 
engine,  and  that  it  ought  to  be  run  in  the  interest  of 
the  engineer." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  believe  that  it  ought  to  be  run 
in  the  interest  of  the  public  ?  " 

"Exactly  —  after  the  public  has  paid." 

"  Well,  I  don't ;  and  I  never  did.  A  newspaper  is 
a  private  enterprise." 

"  It 's  private  property,  but  it  is  n't  a  private  enter- 
prise, and  in  its  very  nature  it  can't  be.  You  know 
I  never  talk  'journalism'  and  stuff;  it  amuses  ine  to 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  29? 

hear  the  young  fellows  at  it,  though  I  think  they 
might  be  doing  something  worse  than  magnifying 
their  office ;  they  might  be  decrying  it.  But  I  've  got 
a  few  ideas  and  principles  of  my  own  in  my  back 
pantaloons  pocket." 

"  Haul  them  out,"  said  Bartley. 

"  I  don't  know  that  they  're  very  well  formulated/1 
returned  Kicker,  "  and  I  don't  contend  that  they  're 
very  new.  But  I  consider  a  newspaper  a  public  en- 
terprise, with  certain  distinct  duties  to  the  public. 
It 's  sacredly  bound  not  to  do  anything  to  deprave  or 
debauch  its  readers;  and  it's  sacredly  bound  not  to 
mislead  or  betray  them,  not  merely  as  to  questions  of 
morals  and  politics,  but  as  to  questions  of  what  we 
may  lump  as  *  advertising.'  Has  friend  Witherby  de- 
veloped his  great  ideas  of  advertisers'  rights  to  you  ? " 
Bartley  did  not  answer,  and  Eicker  went  on :  "  Well, 
then,  you  can  understand  my  position,  when  I  say  it 's 
exactly  the  contrary." 

"You  ought  to  be  on  a  religious  newspaper, 
Eicker,"  said  Bartley  with  a  scornful  laugh. 

"Thank   you,  a  secular  paper  is  bad   enough  for 

"  Well,  I  don't  pretend  that  I  make  the  Events  just 
what  I  want,"  said  Bartley.  "  At  present,  the  most  I 
can  do  is  to  indulge  in  a  few  cheap  dreams  of  what  I 
should  do,  if  I  had  a  paper  of  my  own." 

"  What  are  your  dreams  ?  Haul  out,  as  you  say." 
"  I  should  make  it  pay,  to  begin  with  ;  and  I  should 
make  it  pay  by  making  it  such  a  thorough  newspaper 
that  every  class  of  people  must  have  it.  I  should 
cater  to  the  lowest  class  first,  and  as  long  as  I  was 
poor  I  would  have  the  fullest  and  best  reports  of  ev- 
ery local  accident  and  crime ;  that  would  take  all  the 
rabble.  Then,  as  I  could  afford  it,  I  'd  rise  a  little, 
and  give  first-class  non-partisan  reports  of  local  polit- 
ical affairs ;  that  would  fetch  the  next  largest  class. 


298  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

the  ward  politicians  of  all  parties.  I  'd  lay  for  the 
local  religious  world,  after  that ;  —  religion  conies  right 
after  politics  in  the  popular  mind,  and  it  interests  the 
women  like  murder  :  I  'd  give  the  minutest  religious 
intelligence,  and  not  only  that,  but  the  religious 
gossip,  and  the  religious  scandal.  Then  I  'd  go  in  for 
fashion  and  society,  —  that  comes  next.  I  'd  have 
the  most  reliable  arid  thorough-going  financial  reports 
that  money  could  buy.  When  I  'd  got  my  local 
ground  perfectly  covered,  I  'd  begin  to  ramify.  Every 
fellow  that  could  spell,  in  any  part  of  the  country, 
should  understand  that,  if  he  sent  me  an  account  of 
a  suicide,  or  an  elopement,  or  a  murder,  or  an  acci- 
dent, he  should  be  well  paid  for  it ;  and  I  'd  rise  on 
the  same  scale  through  all  the  departments.  I  'd  add 
art  criticisms,  dramatic  and  sporting  news,  and  book 
reviews,  more  for  the  looks  of  the  thing  than  for  any- 
thing else  ;  they  don't  any  of  'ein  appeal  to  a  large 
class.  I  'd  get  my  paper  into  such  a  shape  that 
people  of  every  kind  and  degree  would  have  to  say, 
no  matter  what  particular  objection  was  made  to  it, 
1  Yes,  that 's  so  ;  but  it 's  the  best  newspaper  in  the 
world,  and  we  can't  get  along  without  it!  " 

"  And  then,"  said  Kicker,  "  you  'd  begin  to  clean  up, 
little  by  little,  —  let  up  on  your  murders  and  scandals, 
and  purge  and  live  cleanly  like  a  gentleman  ?  The 
trick 's  been  tried  before." 

They  had  arrived  at  the  oytser-house,  and  were 
flitting  at  their  table,  waiting  for  the  oysters  to  be 
brought  to  them.  Bartley  tilted  his  chair  back.  "  I 
don't  know  about  the  cleaning  up.  I  should  want  to 
keep  all  my  audience.  If  I  cleaned  up,  the  dirty 
fellows  would  go  off  to  some  one  else  ;  and  the  fel- 
lows that  pretended  to  be  clean  would  be  disap- 
pointed." 

"  Why  don't  you  get  Witherby  to  put  your  ideas  in 
force  ?  "  asked  Kicker,  dryly. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  299 

Bartley  dropped  his  chair  to  all  fours,  and  said  with 
a  smile,  "  He  belongs  to  church." 

"  Ah !  he  has  his  limitations.  What  a  pity  !  He 
has  the  money  to  establish  this  great  moral  engine  o! 
yours,  and  you  have  n't.  It 's  a  loss  to  civilization." 

"  One  thing,  I  know,"  said  Bartley,  with  a  certain 
effect  of  virtue,  "  nobody  should  buy  or  sell  me  ;  and 
the  advertising  element  should  n't  spread  beyond  the 
advertising  page." 

"  Is  n't  that  rather  high  ground  ? "  inquired  Eicker. 

Bartley  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  answer.  "  I 
don't  believe  that  a  newspaper  is  obliged  to  be  superior 
in  tone  to  the  community,"  he  said. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you." 

"  And  if  the  community  is  full  of  vice  and  crime,  the 
newspaper  can't  do  better  than  reflect  its  condition." 

"  Ah !  there  I  should  distinguish,  esteemed  con- 
temporary. There  are  several  tones  in  every  com- 
munity, and  it  will  keep  any  newspaper  scratching  to 
rise  above  the  highest.  But  if  it  keeps  out  of  the  mud 
at  all,  it  can't  help  rising  above  the  lowest.  And  no 
community  is  full  of  vice  and  crime  any  more  than  it 
is  full  of  virtue  and  good  works.  Why  not  let  your 
model  newspaper  mirror  these  ?  " 

'  They  're  not  snappy." 

'  No,  that 's  true." 

'  You  must  give  the  people  what  they  want." 

1  Are  you  sure  of  that  ? " 

'Yes,  lam" 

"  Well,  it 's  a  beautiful  dream,"  said  Kicker,  "  nour- 
ished on  a  youth  sublime.  Why  do  not  these  lofty 
imaginings  visit  us  later  in  life  ?  You  make  me  quite 
ashamed  of  my  own  ideal  newspaper.  Before  you 
began  to  talk,  I  had  been  fancying  that  the  vice  of  our 
journalism  was  its  intense  localism.  I  have  doubted 
a  good  while  whether  a  drunken  Irishman  who  breaks 
his  wife's  head,  or  a  child  who  falls  into  a  tub  of  hot 


300  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

water,  has  really  established  a  claim  on  the  public 
interest.  Why  should  I  be  told  by  telegraph  how 
three  negroes  died  on  the  gallows  in  North  Carolina  ? 
Why  should  an  accurate  correspondent  inform  me  of 
the  elopement  of  a  married  man  with  his  maid-servant 
in  East  Machias  ?  Why  should  I  sup  on  all  the  hor- 
rors of  a  railroad  accident,  and  have  the  bleeding  frag- 
ments hashed  up  for  me  at  breakfast  ?  Why  should 
my  newspaper  give  a  succession  of  shocks  to  my 
nervous  system,  as  I  pass  from  column  to  column,  and 
poultice  me  between  shocks  with  the  nastiness  of 
a  distant  or  local  scandal  ?  You  reply,  because  I  like 
spice.  But  I  don't.  I  am  sick  of  spice ;  and  I  believe 
that  most  of  our  readers  are." 

"  Cater  to  them  with  milk-toast,  then,"  said  Bartley. 

Eicker  laughed  with  him,  and  they  fell  to  upon 
their  oysters. 

When  they  parted,  Bartley  still  found  himself  wake- 
ful. He  knew  that  he  should  not  sleep  if  he  went 
home,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  he  could  not  walk 
about  all  night.  He  turned  into  a  gayly-lighted  base- 
ment, and  asked  for  something  in  the  way  of  a  night- 
cap. 

The  bar-keeper  said  there  was  nothing  like  a  hot- 
scotch  to  make  you  sleep  ;  and  a  small  man  with  his 
hat  on,  who  had  been  talking  with  the  bar-keeper,  and 
coming  up  to  the  counter  occasionally  to  eat  a  bit  of 
cracker  or  a  bit  of  cheese  out  of  the  two  bowls  full  of 
such  fragments  that  stood  at  the  end  of  the  counter,  said 
that  this  was  so. 

It  was  very  cheerful  in  the  bar-room,  with  the 
light  glittering  on  the  rows  of  decanters  behind  the 
bar-keeper,  a  large,  stout,  clean,  pale  man  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  after  the  manner  of  his  kind ;  and 
Bartley  made  up  his  mind  to  stay  there  till  he  wai 
drowsy,  and  to  drink  as  many  hot-scotches  as  were 
necessary  to  the  result.  He  had  his  drink  put  on  a 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  301 

little  table  and  sat  down  to  it  easily,  stirring  it  to  cool 
it  a  little,  and  feeling  its  flattery  in  his  brain  from  the 
first  sip. 

The  man  who  was  munching  cheese  and  crackers 
wore  a  hat  rather  large  for  him,  pulled  down  over  his 
eyes.  He  now  said  that  he  did  not  care  if  he  took  a 
gin-sling,  and  the  bar-keeper  promptly  set  it  before 
him  on  the  counter,  and  saluted  with  "  Good  evening, 
Colonel,"  a  large  man  who  came  in,  carrying  a  small 
dog  in  his  arms.  Bartley  recognized  him  as  the  man- 
ager of  a  variety  combination  playing  at  one  of  the 
theatres,  and  the  manager  recognized  the  little  man 
with  the  gin-sling  as  Tommy.  He  did  not  return  the 
bar-keeper's  salutation,  but  he  asked,  as  he  sat  down 
at  a  table,  "  What  do  I  want  for  supper,  Charley  ? " 

The  bar-keeper  said,  oracularly,  as  he  leaned  for- 
ward to  wipe  his  counter  with  a  napkin,  "  Fricassee 
chicken." 

'•'  Fricassee  devil,"  returned  the  manager.  "  Get  ma 
a  Welsh  rabbit." 

The  bar-keeper,  unperturbed  by  this  rejection,  called 
into  the  tube  behind  him,  "  One  Welsh  rabbit." 

"  I  want  some  cold  chicken  for  my  dog,"  said  tho 
manager. 

"  One  cold  chicken,"  repeated  the  bar-keeper,  in  his 
tube. 

"  White  meat,"  said  the  manager. 

"  White  meat,"  repeated  the  bar-keeper 

"  I  went  into  the  Parker  House  one  night  about 
midnight,  and  I  saw  four  doctors  there  eating  lobster 
salad,  and  devilled  crab,  and  washing  it  down  with 
champagne  ;  and  I  made  up  my  mind  that  the  doctors 
need  n't  talk  to  me  any  more  about  what  was  whole- 
some. I  was  going  in  for  what  was  good.  And  there 
aint  anything  better  for  supper  than  Welsh  rabbit  in 
this  world." 

As  the  manager  addressed  this  philosophy  to  the 


302  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

company  at  large,  no  one  commented  upon  it,  whiclj 
seemed  quite  the  same  to  the  manager,  who  hitched 
one  elbow  over  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  caressed 
with  the  other  hand  the  dog  lying  in  his  lap. 

The  little  man  in  the  large  hat  continued  to  walk 
up  and  down,  leaving  his  gin-sling  on  the  counter,  and 
drinking  it  between  his  visits  to  the  cracker  and 
cheese. 

"  What 's  that  new  piece  of  yours,  Colonel  ? "  he 
asked,  after  a  while.  "  I  aint  seen  it  yet." 

"  Legs,  principally,"  sighed  the  manager.  "  That 's 
what  the  public  wants.  I  give  the  public  what  it 
wants.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  any  better  than  the  pub- 
lic. Nor  any  worse,"  he  added,  stroking  his  dog. 

These  ideas  struck  Bartley  in  their  accordance  with 
his  own  ideas  of  journalism,  as  he  had  propounded 
them  to  Bicker.  He  had  drunk  half  of  his  hot-scotch. 

"  That 's  what  I  say,"  assented  the  little  man.  "  All 
that  a  theatre  has  got  to  do  is  to  keep  even  with  the 
public." 

"  That 's  so,  Tommy,"  said  the  manager  of  a  school 
of  morals,  with  wisdom  that  impressed  more  and 
more  the  manager  of  a  great  moral  engine. 

"  The  same  principle  runs  through  everything," 
observed  Bartley,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

The  drink  had  stiffened  his  tongue  somewhat,  but 
it  did  not  incommode  his  utterance;  it  rather  gave 
dignity  to  it,  and  his  head  was  singularly  clear.  He 
lifted  his  empty  glass  from  the  table,  and,  catching 
the  bar-keeper's  eye,  said,  "  Do  it  again."  The  man 
brought  it  back  full. 

"  It  runs  through  the  churches  as  well  as  the  the- 
atres. As  long  as  the  public  wanted  hell-fire,  the 
ministers  gave  them  hell-fire.  But  you  could  n't  get 
hell-fire  —  not  the  pure,  old-fashioned  brimstone  arti- 
cle—  out  of  a  popular  preacher  now,  for  love  01 
money." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  303 

The  little  man  said,  "  I  guess  you  Ve  got  about  the 
size  of  it  there";  and  the  manager  laughed. 

"  It 's  just  so  with  the  newspapers,  too,"  said  Bart- 
ley.  "Some  newspapers  used  to  stand  out  against 
publishing  murders,  and  personal  gossip,  and  divorce 
trials.  There  ain't  a  newspaper  that  pretends  to  keep 
anyways  up  with  the  times,  now,  that  don't  do  it! 
The  public  want  spice,  and  they  will  have  it ! " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  manager,  "  that 's  my  way  of 
looking  at  it.  I  say,  if  the  public  don't  want  Shake- 
speare, give  'em  burlesque  till  they  're  sick  of  it.  I 
believe  in  what  Grant  said  : '  The  quickest  way  to  get 
rid  of  a  bad  law  is  to  enforce  it.' " 

"  That 's  so,"  said  the  little  man,  "  every  time."  He 
added,  to  the  bar-keeper,  that  he  guessed  he  would 
have  some  brandy  and  soda,  and  Bartley  found  him- 
self at  the  bottom  of  his  second  tumbler.  He  or- 
dered it  replenished. 

The  little  man  seemed  to  be  getting  further  away. 
He  said,  from  the  distance  to  which  he  had  with- 
drawn, "  You  want  to  go  to  bed  with  three  nightcaps 
on,  like  an  old-clothes  man." 

Bartley  felt  like  resenting  the  freedom,  but  he  was 
anxious  to  pour  his  ideas  of  journalism  into  the  man- 
ager's sympathetic  ear,  and  he  began  to  talk,  with  an 
impression  that  it  behooved  him  to  talk  fast.  His 
brain  was  still  very  clear,  but  his  tongue  was  getting 
stiffer.  The  manager  now  had  his  Welsh  rabbit  before 
him ;  but  Bartley  could  not  make  out  how  it  had  got 
there,  nor  when.  He  was  talking  fast,  and  he  knew, 
by  the  way  everybody  was  listening,  that  he  was  talk- 
ing well.  Sometimes  he  left  his  table,  glass  in  hand, 
and  went  and  laid  down  the  law  to  the  manager,  who 
smilingly  assented  to  all  he  said.  Once  he  heard  a 
low  growling  at  his  feet,  and,  looking  down,  he  saw 
the  dog  with  his  plate  of  cold  chicken,  that  had  also 
been  conjured  into  the  room  somehow. 


304  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  Look  out,"  said  the  manager,  "  he  '11  nip  you  in 
jhe  leg." 

"Curse  the  dog!  he  seems  to  be  on  all  sides  ol 
you,"  said  Bartley.  "  I  can't  stand  anywhere." 

"  Better  sit  down,  then,"  suggested  the  manager. 

"Good  idea,"  said  the  little  man,  who  was  still 
walking  up  and  down.  It  appeared  as  if  he  had  not 
spoken  for  several  hours  ;  his  hat  was  further  over  his 
eyes.  Bartley  had  thought  he  was  gone. 

"  What  business  is  it  of  yours  ? "  he  demanded, 
fiercely,  moving  towards  the  little  man. 

"  Come,  none  of  that,"  said  the  bar-keeper,  steadily. 

Bartley  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  "  Where 's 
your  hat  ? "  he  asked. 

The  others  laughed ;  the  bar-keeper  smiled. 

"  Are  you  a  married  man  ? " 

"  Never  mind  ! "  said  the  bar-keeper,  severely. 

Bartley  turned  to  the  little  man  :  "  You  married  ? " 

"  Not  much!'  replied  the  other.  He  was  now  top- 
ping off  with  a  whiskey-straight. 

Bartley  referred  himself  to  the  manager :  "  You  ? " 

"Pas  si  bdte,"  said  the  manager,  who  did  his  own 
adapting  from  the  French. 

"  Well,  you  're  scholar,  and  you  're  gentleman,"  said 
Bartley.  The  indefinite  articles  would  drop  out,  in 
spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  keep  them  in.  "  'N'  I  want 
ask  you  what  you  do  —  to  —  ask  —  you  —  what  — 
would  —  you  —  do,"  he  repeated,  with  painful  exact- 
ness, but  he  failed  to  make  the  rest  of  the  sentence 
perfect,  and  he  pronounced  it  all  in  a  word,  "  'fyourn 
wifelockyouout  ? " 

"  I  'd  take  a  walk,"  said  the  manager. 

"  I  'd  bu'st  the  door  in,"  said  the  little  man. 

Bartley  turned  and  gazed  at  him  as  if  the  little 
man  were  a  much  more  estimable  person  than  he  had 
supposed.  He  passed  his  arm  through  the  little 
man's,  which  the  other  had  just  crooked  to  lift  his 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  305 

whiskey  to  his  mouth.  "Look  here,"  said  Bartley, 
"  tha's  jus'  what  /  told  her.  I  want  you  to  go  home 
'th  me ;  I  want  t'  introduce  you  to  my  wife." 

"  All  right,"  answered  the  little  man.  "  Don't  care 
if  I  do."  He  dropped  his  tumbler  to  the  floor.  "  Hang 
it  up,  Charley,  glass  and  all.  Hang  up  this  gentle- 
man's nightcaps  —  my  account.  Gentleman  asks  me 
home  to  his  house,  I  '11  hang  him  —  I  '11  get  him 
hung,  —  well,  fix  it  to  suit  yourself,  —  every  time ! " 

They  got  themselves  out  of  the  door,  and  the  man- 
ager said  to  the  bar-keeper,  who  came  round  to  gather 
up  the  fragments  of  the  broken  tumbler,  "  Think  his 
wife  will  be  glad  to  see  'em,  Charley  ? " 

"  Oh,  they  '11  be  taken  care  of  before  they  react  his 
house." 


306  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 


XXV. 

WHEN  they  were  once  out  under  the  stars,  Bartley, 
who  still  felt  his  brain  clear,  said  that  he  would  not 
take  his  friend  home  at  once,  but  would  show  him 
where  he  visited  when  he  first  came  to  Boston.  The 
other  agreed  to  the  indulgence  of  this  sentiment,  and 
they  set  out  to  find  Eumford  Street  together. 

"You've  heard  of  old  man  Halleck,  —  Lestor 
Neather  Interest  ?  Tha  's  place,  —  there  's  where  I 
stayed.  His  son 's  my  frien', —  damn  stuck-up,  super- 
cilious beast  he  is,  too !  /  do'  care  f 'r  him  !  I  '11 
show  you  place,  so's't  you  '11  know  it  when  you  come 
to  it,  — 'f  I  can  ever  find  it." 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  street,  looking,  while 
Bartley  poured  his  sorrows  into  the  ear  of  his  friend, 
who  grew  less  and  less  responsive,  and  at  last  ceased 
from  his  side  altogether.  Bartley  then  dimly  per- 
ceived that  he  was  himself  sitting  on  a  door-step,  and 
that  his  head  was  hanging  far  down  between  his 
knees,  as  if  he  had  been  sleeping  in  that  posture. 

"Locked  out,  —  locked  out  of  my  own  door,  and 
by  my  own  wife ! "  He  shed  tears,  and  fell  asleep 
again.  From  time  to  time  he  woke,  and  bewailed 
himself  to  Bicker  as  a  poor  boy  who  had  fought  his 
own  way ;  he  owned  that  he  had  made  mistakes,  as 
who  had  not  ?  Again  he  was  trying  to  convince 
Squire  Gaylord  that  they  ought  to  issue  a  daily  edi- 
tion of  the  Equity  Free  Press,  and  at  the  same  time 
persuading  Mr.  Halleck  to  buy  the  Events  for  him, 
and  let  him  put  it  on  a  paying  basis.  He  shivered, 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  307 

sighed,  hiccupped,  and  was  dozing  off  again,  when 
Henry  Bird  knocked  him  down,  and  lie  fell  with  a  cry, 
which  at  last  brought  to  the  door  the  uneasy  sleeper, 
who  had  been  listening  to  him  within,  and  trying  to 
realize  his  presence,  catching  his  voice  in  waking  in- 
tervals,  doubting  it,  drowsing  when  it  ceased,  and  then 
catching  it  and  losing  it  again. 

"  Hello,  here  !  What  do  you  want  ?  Hubbard !  Is 
it  you  ?  What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here  ? " 

"  Halleck,"  said  Bartley,  who  was  unsteadily  straight- 
ening himself  upon  his  feet,  "  glad  to  find  you  at  home. 
Been  looking  for  your  house  all  night.  Want  to  intro- 
duce you  to  partic-ic-ular  friend  of  mine.  Mr.  Halleck, 
Mr. .  Curse  me  if  I  know  your  name  —  " 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,"  said  Halleck. 

He  ran  into  the  house  for  his  hat  and  coat,  and 
came  out  again,  closing  the  door  softly  after  him.  He 
found  Bartley  in  the  grip  of  a  policeman,  whom  he  was 
asking  his  name,  that  he  might  introduce  him  to  his 
friend  Halleck. 

"  Do  you  know  this  man,  Mr.  Halleck  ? "  asked  the 
policeman. 

"  Yes,  —  yes.  I  know  him,"  said  Ben,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Let 's  get  him  away  quietly,  please.  He 's  all  right. 
It 's  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  him  so.  Will  you  help 
me  with  him  up  to  Johnson's  stable  ?  I  '11  get  a 
carriage  there  and  take  him  home." 

They  had  begun  walking  Bartley  along  between 
them ;  he  dozed,  and  paid  no  attention  to  their  talk. 

The  policeman  laughed.  "  I  was  just  going  to  run 
him  in,  when  you  came  out.  You  didn't  come  a 
minute  too  soon." 

They  got  Bartley  to  the  stable,  and  he  slept  heavily 
in  one  of  the  chairs  in  the  office,  while  the  ostlers  were 
putting  the  horses  to  the  carriage.  The  policeman 
remained  at  the  office-door,  looking  in  at  Bartley,  and 
philosophizing  the  situation  to  Halleck.  "  Your  speak* 


308  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

in'  about  its  bein'  the  first  time  you  ever  saw  him  so 
made  me  think 't  I  rather  help  take)  home  a  regular 
habitual  drunk  to  his  family,  any  day.  than  a  case  like 
this.  They  always  seem  to  take  it  so  much  harder  the 
first  time.  Boards  with  his  mother,  I  presume  ? " 

"He's  married,"  said  Halleck,  sadly.  "He  has  a 
house  of  his  own." 

"  Well ! "  said  the  policeman. 

Bartley  slept  all  the  way  to  Clover  Street,  and  when 
the  carriage  stopped  at  his  door,  they  had  difficulty  in 
waking  him  sufficiently  to  get  him  out. 

"  Don't  come  in,  please,"  said  Halleck  to  the  police- 
man, when  this  was  done.  "  The  man  will  carry  you 
back  to  your  beat.  Thank  you,  ever  so  much  ! " 

"All  right,  Mr.  Halleck.  Don't  mention  it,"  said 
the  policeman,  and  leaned  back  in  the  hack  with  an 
air  of  luxury,  as  it  rumbled  softly  away. 

Halleck  remained  on  the  pavement  with  Bartley 
falling  limply  against  him  in  the  dim  light  of  the 
dawn.  "  What  you  want  ?  What  you  doing  with 
me  ? "  he  demanded  with  sullen  stupidity. 

"I've  got  you  home,  Hubbard.  Here  we  are  at 
your  house."  He  pulled  him  across  the  pavement  to 
the  threshold,  and  put  his  hand  on  the  bell,  but  the 
door  was  thrown  open  before  he  could  ring,  and  Marcia 
stood  there,  with  her  face  white,  and  her  eyes  red  with 
watching  and  crying. 

"  Oh,  Bartley!  oh,  Bartley!"  she  sobbed.  " Oh,  Mr. 
Halleck  !  what  is  it  1  Is  he  hurt  ?  I  did  it,  —  yes,  I 
did  it!  It's  my  fault!  Oh  !  will  he  die  ?  Is  he  sick?" 

"  He  is  n't  very  well.  He  'd  better  go  to  bed,"  sai( 
Halleck. 

"  Yes,  yes !     I  will  help  you  upstairs  with  him." 

"  Do'  need  any  help,"  said  Bartley,  sulkily.  "  Go 
upstairs  myself." 

He  actually  did  so,  with  the  help  of  the  hand-rail, 
Marcia  running  before,  to  open  the  door,  and  smooth 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  309 

the  pillows  which  her  head  had  not  touched,  and 
Halleck  following  him  to  catch  him  if  he  should  fall. 
She  unlaced  his  shoes  and  got  them  off,  while  Halleck 
removed  his  coat. 

"  Oh,  Bartley !  where  do  you  feel  badly,  dear  ?  Oh  I 
what  shall  I  do  ? "  she  moaned,  as  he  tumbled  himself 
on  the  bed,  and  lapsed  into  a  drunken  stupor. 

"Better  —  better  come  out,  Mrs.  Hubbard,"  said 
Halleck.  "  Better  let  him  alone,  now.  You  only 
make  him  worse,  talking  to  him." 

Quelled  by  the  mystery  of  his  manner,  she  followed 
him  out  and  down  the  stairs.  "  Oh,  do  tell  me  what  it 
is,"  she  implored,  in  a  low  voice,  "  or  I  shall  go  wild ! 
But  tell  me,  and  I  can  bear  it !  I  can  bear  anything 
if  I  know  what  it  is  !  "  She  came  close  to  him  in  her 
entreaty,  and  fixed  her  eyes  beseechingly  on  his,  while 
she  caught  his  hand  in  both  of  hers.  "  Is  he  —  is  ha 
insane  ? " 

"  He  is  n't  quite  in  his  right  mind,  Mrs.  Hubbard," 
Halleck  began,  softly  releasing  himself,  and  retreating 
a  little  from  her ;  but  she  pursued  him,  and  put  her 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  then  go  for  the  doctor,  —  go  instantly  !  Don't 
lose  a  minute  !  I  shall  not  be  afraid  to  stay  alone. 
Or  if  you  think  I  'd  better  not,  I  will  go  for  the  doctor 
myself." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Halleck,  smiling  sadly :  the  case  cer- 
tainly had  its  ludicrous  side.  "  He  does  n't  need  a 
doctor.  You  must  n't  think  of  calling  a  doctor.  In- 
deed you  must  n't.  He  11  come  out  all  right  of  him- 
self. If  you  sent  for  a  doctor,  it  would  make  him  very 
angry." 

She  burst  into  tears.  "  Well,  I  will  do  what  you 
say,"  she  cried.  "  It  would  never  have  happened,  if  it 
had  n't  been  for  me.  I  want  to  tell  you  what  I  did." 
she  went  on  wildly.  "  I  want  to  tell  —  " 

"  Please  don't  tell  me  anything,  Mrs.  Hubbard !    It 


310  A  MODERN  INSTANCE, 

will  all  come  right  —  and  very  soon.  It  is  n't  anything 
to  be  alarmed  about.  He  '11  be  well  in  a  few  hours. 
I  —  ah  —  Good  by."  He  had  found  his  cane,  and 
he  made  a  limp  toward  the  door,  but  she  swiftly  in- 
terposed herself. 

"  Why,"  she  panted,  in  mixed  reproach  and  terror, 
"  you  're  not  going  away  ?  You  're  not  going  to  leave 
me  before  Bartley  is  well  ?  He  may  get  worse,  —  he 
may  die  !  You  must  n't  go,  Mr.  Halleck  ! " 

"  Yes,  I  must,  —  I  can't  stay,  —  I  ought  n't  to 
^tay,  —  it  won't  do !  He  won't  get  worse,  he  won't 
die."  The  perspiration  broke  out  on  Halleck's  face, 
which  he  lifted  to  hers  with  a  distress  as  great  as  her 
own. 

She  only  answered,  "  I  can 't  let  you  go ;  it  would 
kill  me.  I  wonder  at  your  wanting  to  go." 

There  was  something  ghastly  comical  in  it  all,  and 
Halleck  stood  in  fear  of  its  absurdity  hardly  less 
than  of  its  tragedy.  He  rapidly  revolved  in  his 
mind  the  possibilities  of  the  case.  He  thought  at 
first  that  it  might  be  well  to  call  a  doctor,  and,  having 
explained  the  situation  to  him,  pay  him  to  remain  in 
charge ;  but  he  reflected  that  it  would  be  insulting  to 
ask  a  doctor  to  see  a  man  in  Hubbard's  condition. 
He  took  out  his  watch,  and  saw  that  it  was  six  o'clock ; 
and  he  said,  desperately,  "  You  can  send  for  me,  if 
you  get  anxious  —  " 

"  I  can't  let  you  go ! " 

"  T  must  really  get  my  breakfast  —  " 

"  The  girl  will  get  something  for  you  here !  Oh, 
don't  go  away  ! "  Her  lip  began  to  quiver  again,  and 
her  bosom  to  rise. 

He  could  not  bear  it.  "  Mrs.  Hubbard,  will  you 
believe  what  I  say  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  faltered,  reluctantly. 

"Well,  I  tell  you  that  Mr.  Hubbard  is  in  no  sort 
of  danger ;  and  I  know  that  it  would  be  extremely 
offensive  to  him  if  I  stayed." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  311 

*  Then  you  must  go,"  she  answered  promptly,  and 
opened  the  door,  which  she  had  closed  for  fear  he 
might  escape.  "  I  will  send  for  a  doctor." 

"  No ;  dont  send  for  a  doctor,  don't  send  for  any- 
body don't  speak  of  the  matter  to  any  one :  it  would 
be  very  mortifying  to  him.  It 's  merely  a  —  a  — 
kind  of  —  seizure,  that  a  great  many  people  —  men  — 
are  subject  to ;  but  he  would  n't  like  to  have  it 
known."  He  saw  that  his  words  were  making  an 
impression  upon  her ;  perhaps  her  innocence  was  be- 
ginning to  divine  the  truth.  "  Will  you  do  what  I 
say  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured. 

Her  head  began  to  droop,  and  her  face  to  turn 
away  in  a  dawning  shame  too  cruel  for  him  to  see. 

"I  —  I  will  come  back  as  soon  as  I  get  my  break- 
fast, to  make  sure  that  everything  is  right." 

She  let  him  find  his  own  way  out,  and  Halleck 
issued  upon  the  street,  as  miserable  as  if  the  disgrace 
were  his  own.  It  was  easy  enough  for  him  to  get 
back  into  his  own  room  without  alarming  the  family. 
He  ate  his  breakfast  absently,  and  then  went  out 
while  the  others  were  still  at  table. 

"I  don't  think  Ben  seems  very  well,"  said  his 
mother,  anxiously,  and  she  looked  to  her  husband  for 
the  denial  he  always  gave. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  he 's  all  right.  What 's  the  matter 
with  him  ? " 

"  It 's  nothing  but  his  ridiculous,  romantic  way  of 
taking  the  world  to  heart,"  Olive  interposed.  "  You 
may  be  sure  he 's  troubled  about  something  that 
does  n't  concern  him  in  the  least.  It 's  what  comes 
of  the  life-long  conscientiousness  of  his  parents.  If 
Ben  does  n't  turn  out  a  philanthropist  of  the  deepest 
dye  yet,  you  11  have  me  to  thank  for  it.  I  see  more 
and  more  every  day  that  I  was  providentially  born 
wicked,  so  as  to  keep  this  besottedly  righteous  fam- 
ily's head  above  water." 


312  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

She  feigned  an  angry  impatience  with  the  condition 
of  things ;  but  when  her  father  went  out,  she  joined 
her  mother  in  earnest  conjectures  as  to  what  Ben  had 
on  his  mind. 

Halleck  wandered  about  till  nearly  ten  o'clock,  and 
then  he  went  to  the  little  house  on  Clover  Street. 
The  servant-girl  answered  his  ring,  and  when  he 
asked  for  Mrs.  Hubbard,  she  said  that  Mr.  Hubbard 
wished  to  see  him,  and  please  would  he  step  upstairs. 

He  found  Bartley  seated  at  the  window,  with  a  wet 
towel  round  his  head,  and  his  face  pale  with  head- 
ache. 

"  Well,  old  man,"  he  said,  with  an  assumption  of 
comradery  that  was  nauseous  to  Halleck,  "  you  've 
done  the  handsome  thing  by  me.  I  know  all  about 
it.  I  knew  something  about  it  all  the  time."  He 
htjld  out  his  hand,  without  rising,  and  Halleck  forced 
himself  to  touch  it.  "  I  appreciate  your  delicacy  in 
not  telling  my  wife.  Of  course  you  couldn't  tell," 
he  said,  with  depraved  enjoyment  of  what  he  con- 
ceived of  Halleck's  embarrassment.  "But  I  guess 
she  must  have  smelt  a  rat.  As  the  fellow  says,"  he 
added,  seeing  the  disgust  that  Halleck  could  not  keep 
out  of  his  face,  "  I  shall  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  as 
soon  as  she  can  bear  it.  She  's  pretty  high-strung. 
Lying  down,  now,"  he  explained.  "  You  see,  I  went 
out  to  get  something  to  make  me  sleep,  and  the  first 
thing  I  knew  I  had  got  too  much.  Good  thing  I 
turned  up  on  your  doorstep  ;  might  have  been  waltz- 
ing into  the  police  court  about  now.  How  did  you 
happen  to  hear  me  ? " 

Halleck  briefly  explained,  with  an  air  of  abhorrence 
for  the  facts. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  most  of  it,"  said  Bartley.  "  Well, 
I  want  to  thank  you,  Halleck.  You  Ve  saved  me 
from  disgrace,  —  from  ruin,  for  all  I  know.  Whew ! 
how  my  head  aches ! "  he  said,  making  an  appeal  to 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  313 

Halleck's  pity,  with  closed  eyes.  "  Halleck,"  he  mur- 
mured, feebly,  "  I  wish  you  would  do  me  a  favor." 

"  Yes  ?     What  is  it  ? "  asked  Halleck,  dryly. 

"  Go  round  to  the  Events  office  and  tell  old  With- 
<$rby  that  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  put  in  an  appearance 
to-day.  I  'm  not  up  to  writing  a  note,  even ;  and 
he  'd  feel  flattered  at  your  coming  personally.  It 
would  make  it  all  right  for  me." 

"  Of  course  I  will  go,"  said  Halleck. 

"Thanks,"  returned  Bartley,  plaintively,  with  his 
eyes  closed. 


314  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 


XXVI. 

\ 

BARTLEY  would  willingly  have  passed  this  affair 
over  with  Marcia,  like  some  of  their  quarrels,  and 
allowed  a  reconciliation  to  effect  itself  through  mere 
lapse  of  time  and  daily  custom.  But  there  were 
difficulties  in  the  way  to  such  an  end ;  his  shameful 
escapade  had  given  the  quarrel  a  character  of  its 
own,  which  could  not  be  ignored.  He  must  keep  his 
word  about  making  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  Marcia, 
wh ether  he  liked  or  not ;  but  she  facilitated  his  con- 
fession by  the  rneek  and  dependent  fashion  in  which 
she  hovered  about,  anxious  to  do  something  or  any- 
thing for  him.  If,  as  he  suggested  to  Halleck,  she 
had  divined  the  truth,  she  evidently  did  not  hold  him 
wholly  to  blame  for  what  had  happened,  and  he  was 
not  without  a  self-righteous  sense  of  having  given  her 
a  useful  and  necessary  lesson.  He  was  inclined  to  a 
severity  to  which  his  rasped  and  shaken  nerves  con- 
tributed, when  he  spoke  to  her  that  night,  as  they 
sat  together  after  tea ;  she  had  some  sewing  in  her 
lap,  little  mysteries  of  soft  muslin  for  the  baby,  which 
she  was  edging  with  lace,  and  her  head  drooped  over 
her  work,  as  if  she  could  not  confront  him  with  her 
swollen  eyes. 

"  Look  here,  Marcia,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know  what 
was  the  matter  with  me  this  morning  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  in  words  ;  her  hands  quivered  a 
moment ;  then  she  caught  up  the  things  out  of  her 
lap,  and  sobbed  into  them.  The  sight  unmanned 
Hartley ;  he  hated  to  see  any  one  cry,  —  even  his  wife, 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  315 

to  whose  tears  he  was  accustomed.  He  dropped  down 
beside  her  on  the  sofa,  and  pulled  her  head  over  on 
his  shoulder. 

"  It  was  my  fault !  it  was  my  fault,  Bartley ! "  she 
sobbed.  "  Oh,  how  can  I  ever  get  over  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  don't  cry,  don't  cry !  It  was  n't  altogether 
your  fault,"  returned  Bartley.  "We  were  both  to 
blame." 

"  No  !  I  began  it.  If  I  had  n't  broken  my  promise 
about  speaking  of  Hannah  Morrison,  it  never  would 
have  happened."  This  was  so  true  that  Bartley  could 
riot  gainsay  it.  "  But  I  could  n't  seem  to  help  it ;  and 
you  were  —  you  were  — so  quick  with  me  ;  you  did  n't 
give  me  time  to  think ;  you  —  But  I  was  the  one 
to  blame,  I  was  to  blame  ! " 

"  Oh,  well,  never  mind  about  it ;  don't  take  on  so," 
coaxed  Bartley.  "  It 's  all  over  now,  and  it  can't  be 
helped.  And  I  can  promise  you,"  he  added,  "  that  it 
shall  never  happen  again,  no  matter  what  you  do," 
and  in  making  this  promise  he  felt  the  glow  of  virtu- 
ous performance.  "  I  think  we  Ve  both  had  a  lesson. 
I  suppose."  he  continued  sadly,  as  one  might  from 
impersonal  reflection  upon  the  temptations  and  de- 
pravity of  large  cities,  "  that  it 's  common  enough.  I 
dare  say  it  is  n't  the  first  time  Ben  Halleck  has  taken 
a  fellow  home  in  a  hack."  Bartley  got  so  much  com- 
fort from  the  conjecture  he  had  thrown  out  for 
Marcia's  advantage,  that  he  felt  a  sort  of  self-approval 
in  the  fact  with  which  he  followed  it  up.  "And 
there  's  this  consolation  about  it,  if  there  is  n't  any 
other :  that  it  would  n't  have  happened  now,  if  it  had 
ever  happened  before." 

Marcia  lifted  her  head  and  looked  into  his  face: 
"  What  —  what  do  you  mean,  Bartley  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  I  never  was  overcome  before  in  my 
life  by  —  wine."  He  delicately  avoided  saying 
whiskey. 


316  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Why,  don't  you  see  ?  If  I  'd  had  the  habit  of 
drinking,  I  should  n't  have  been  affected  by  it." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  anxiously. 

"  Why,  I  knew  I  should  n't  be  able  to  sleep,  I  was 
BO  mad  at  you  —  " 

"Oh!" 

"And  I  dropped  into  the  hotel  bar-room  for  * 
nightcap,  —  for  something  to  make  me  sleep." 

"  Yes,  yes  ! "  she  urged  eagerly. 

"  I  took  what  would  n't  have  touched  a  man  that 
was  in  the  habit  of  it." 

"  Poor  Bartley  ! " 

"  And  the  first  thing  I  knew  I  had  got  too  much. 
I  was  drunk,  —  wild  drunk,"  he  said  with  magnani- 
mous frankness. 

She  had  been  listening  intensely,  exculpating  him 
at  every  point,  and  now  his  innocence  all  flashed 
upon  her.  "  I  see !  I  see  ! "  she  cried.  "  And  it  was 
because  you  had  never  tasted  it  before  —  " 

"  Well,  I  had  tasted  it  once  or  twice,"  interrupted 
Bartley,  with  heroic  veracity. 

"  No  matter !  It  was  because  you  had  never  more 
than  hardly  tasted  it  that  a  very  little  overcame  you 
in  an  instant.  I  see  ! "  she  repeated,  contemplating 
him  in  her  ecstasy,  as  the  one  habitually  sober  man 
in  a  Boston  full  of  inebriates.  And  now  I  shall  never 
regret  it ;  I  shall  never  care  for  it ;  I  never  shall  think 
about  it  again  !  Or,  yes  !  I  shall  always  remember  it,1 
because  it  shows  —  because  it  proves  that  you  are  al- 
ways strictly  temperance.  It  was  worth  happening 
for  that.  I  am  glad  it  happened  !  " 

She  rose  from  his  side,  and  took  her  sewing  nearer 
the  lamp,  and  resumed  her  work  upon  it  with  shining 
eyes. 

Bartley  remained  in  his  place  on  the  sofa,  feeling, 
and  perhaps  looking,  rather  sheepish.  He  had  made  a 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  317 

elean  breast  of  it,  and  the  confession  had  redounded 
only  too  much  to  his  credit.  To  do  him  justice,  he 
had  not  intended  to  bring  the  affair  to  quite  such  a 
triumphant  conclusion ;  and  perhaps  something  bet- 
ter than  his  sense  of  humor  was  also  touched  when  he 
found  himself  not  only  exonerated,  but  transformed 
into  an  exemplar  of  abstinence. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  it  is  n't  exactly  a  thing  to  be  glad 
of,  but  it  certainly  isn't  a  thing  to  worry  yourself 
about.  You  know  the  worst  of  it,  and  you  know  the 
best  of  it.  It  never  happened  before,  and  it  never 
shall  happen  again  ;  that 's  all.  Don't  lament  over  it, 
don't  accuse  yourself ;  just  let  it  go,  and  we  '11  both 
see  what  we  can  do  after  this  in  the  way  of  behaving 
better." 

He  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  began  to  walk  about  the 
room. 

"  Does  your  head  still  ache  ? "  she  asked,  fondly. 
"  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  it !  " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  sleep  it  off,"  returned  Bartley. 

She  followed  him  with  her  eyes.     "  Bartley ! " 

"Well?" 

"  Do  you  suppose  —  do  you  believe  —  that  Mr. 
Halleck  —  that  he  was  ever  —  " 

"  No,  Marcia,  I  don't,"  said  Bartley,  stopping.  "  I 
know  he  never  was.  Ben  Halleck  is  slow  ;  but  he 's 
good.  I  could  n't  imagine  his  being  drunk  any  more 
than  I  could  imagine  your  being  so.  I'd  willingly 
sacrifice  his  reputation  to  console  you,"  added  Bart- 
ley, with  a  comical  sense  of  his  own  regret  that  Hal- 
leck was  not,  for  the  occasion,  an  habitual  drunkard, 
"  but  I  cannot  tell  a  lie."  He  looked  at  her  with  a 
smile,  and  broke  into  a  sudden  laugh.  "  No,  my  dear, 
the  only  person  I  think  of  just  now  as  having  suf- 
fered similarly  with  myself  is  the  great  and  good  An- 
drew Johnson.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  him  ? " 

"  Was  he  the  one  they  impeached  ?  "  she  faltered, 


318  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

not  knowing  what  Bartley  would  be  at,  but  smiling 
faintly  in  sympathy  with  his  mirth. 

"  He  was  the  one  they  impeached.  He  was  the  one 
who  was  overcome  by  wine  on  his  inauguration  day, 
because  he  had  never  been  overcome  before.  It 's  a 
parallel  case  ! "  Bartley  got  a  great  deal  more  enjoy- 
ment out  of  the  parallel  case  than  Marcia.  The  smile 
faded  from  her  face. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  coaxed, "  be  satisfied  with  Andrew 
Johnson,  and  let  Halleck  go.  Ah,  Marcia  ! ''  he  added, 
seriously,  "  Ben  Halleck  is  the  kind  of  man  you  ought 
to  have  married !  Don't  you  suppose  that  I  know 
I  'm  not  good  enough  for  you  ?  I  'm  pretty  good  by 
fits  and  starts ;  but  he  would  have  been  good  right 
straight  along.  I  should  never  have  had  to  bring  Mm 
home  in  a  hack  to  you ! " 

His  generous  admission  had  the  just  effect.  "  Hush, 
Bartley !  Don't  talk  so  !  You  know  that  you  're  bet- 
ter for  me  than  the  best  man  in  the  world,  dear, 
and  even  if  you  were  not,  I  should  love  you  the  best. 
Don't  talk,  please,  that  way,  of  any  one  else,  or  it  will 
make  me  hate  you  ! " 

He  liked  that ;  and  after  all  he  was  not  without  an 
obscure  pride  in  his  last  night's  adventure  as  a  some- 
what hazardous  but  decided  assertion  of  manly  su- 
premacy. It  was  not  a  thing  to  be  repeated;  but 
for  once  in  a  way  it  was  not  wholly  to  be  regretted, 
especially  as  he  was  so  well  out  of  it. 

He  pulled  up  a  chair  in  front  of  her,  and  began  to 
joke  about  the  things  she  had  in  her  lap;  and  the 
shameful  and  sorrowful  day  ended  in  the  bliss  of  a 
more  perfect  peace  between  them  than  they  had  known 
since  the  troubles  of  their  married  life  began.  "  I  tell 
you,"  said  Bartley  to  Marcia,  "  I  shall  stick  to  tivoli 
after  this,  religiously." 

It  was  several  weeks  later  that  Halleck  limped 
into  Atherton's  lodgings,  and  dropped  into  one  of  his 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  319 

mend's  easy-chairs.  The  room  had  a  bachelor  com- 
fort of  aspect,  and  the  shaded  lamp  on  the  table  shed 
a  mellow  light  on  the  green  leather-covered  furniture, 
wrinkled  and  creased,  and  worn  full  of  such  hospita- 
ble hollows  as  that  which  welcomed  Halleck.  Some 
packages  of  law  papers  were  scattered  about  on  the 
table ;  but  the  hour  of  the  night  had  come  when 
a  lawyer  permits  himself  a  novel.  Atherton  looked 
up  from  his  as  Halleck  entered,  and  stretched  out  a 
hand,  which  the  latter  took  on  his  way  to  the  easy- 
chair  across  the  table. 

"  How  do  you  do  ? "  said  Atherton,  after  allowing 
him  to  sit  for  a  certain  time  in  the  silence,  which  ex- 
pressed better  than  words  the  familiarity  that  existed 
between  them  in  spite  of  the  lawyer's  six  or  seven 
years  of  seniority. 

Halleck  leaned  forward  and  tapped  the  floor  with 
his  stick ;  then  he  fell  back  again,  and  laid  his  cane 
across  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  Atherton,"  he  said,  "  if  you  had  found  a  blackguard 
of  your  acquaintance  drunk  on  your  doorstep  early  one 
morning,  and  had  taken  him  home  to  his  wife,  how 
would  you  have  expected  her  to  treat  you  the  next 
time  you  saw  her  ? " 

The  lawyer  was  too  much  used  to  the  statement, 
direct  and  hypothetical,  of  all  sorts  of  case?,  to  be 
startled  at  this.  He  smiled  slightly,  and  said,  "  That 
would  depend  a  good  deal  upon  the  lady." 

"  Oh,  but  generalize !  From  what  you  know  of 
women  as  Woman,  what  should  you  expect  ?  Should  n't 
you  expect  her  to  make  you  pay  somehow  for  your 
privity  to  her  disgrace,  to  revenge  her  misery  upon 
you  ?  Is  n't  there  a  theory  that  women  forgive  inju* 
vies,  but  never  ignominies  ? " 

"  That 's  what  the  novelists  teach,  and  we  bachelors 
get  most  of  our  doctrine  about  women  from  them." 
He  closed  his  novel  on  the  paper-cutter,  and, 


320  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

the  book  upon  the  table,  clasped  his  hands  together  at 
the  back  of  his  head.  "  We  don't  go  to  nature  for  oui 
impressions ;  but  neither  do  the  novelists,  for  that 
matter.  Now  and  then,  however,  in  the  way  of  busi- 
ness, I  get  a  glimpse  of  realities  that  make  me  doubt 
my  prophets.  Who  had  this  experience  ? " 

"I  did." 

"  I  'm  sorry  for  that,"  said  Atherton. 

"Yes,"  returned  Halleck,  with  whimsical  melan- 
choly ;  "  I  'm  not  particularly  adapted  for  it.  But  I 
don't  know  that  it  would  be  a  very  pleasant  experi- 
ence for  anybody." 

He  paused  drearily,  and  Atherton  said,  "  And  how 
did  she  actually  treat  you  ? " 

"  I  hardly  know.  I  had  n't  been  at  the  pains  to 
look  them  up  since  the  thing  happened,  and  I  had  been 
carrying  their  squalid  secret  round  for  a  fortnight, 
and  suffering  from  it  as  if  it  were  all  my  own." 

Atherton  smiled  at  the  touch  of  self-characterization. 

"  When  I  met  her  and  her  husband  and  her  baby  to- 
day, —  a  family  party,  —  well,  she  made  me  ashamed 
of  the  melodramatic  compassion  I  had  been  feeling 
for  her.  It  seemed  that  I  had  been  going  about  un- 
necessarily, not  to  say  impertinently,  haggard  with  the 
recollection  of  her  face  as  I  saw  it  when  she  opened 
the  door  for  her  blackguard  and  me  that  morning. 
She  looked  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  happened  at  our 
last  meeting.  I  could  n't  brace  up  all  at  once :  I  be- 
haved like  a  sneak,  in  view  of  her  serenity." 

"  Perhaps  nothing  unusual  had  happened,"  suggested 
Atherton. 

"  No,  that  theory  is  n't  tenable,"  said  Halleck.  "  It 
was  the  one  fact  in  the  blackguard's  favor  that  she  had 
evidently  never  seen  him  in  that  state  before,  and 
did  n't  know  what  was  the  matter.  She  was  wild  at 
first ;  she  wanted  to  send  for  a  doctor.  I  think  towards 
the  last  she  began  to  susx>ect.  But  I  don't  know  how 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  321 

she  looked  then :  I  could  n't  look  at  her."  He  stopped 
as  if  still  in  the  presence  of  the  pathetic  figure,  with  its 
sidelong,  drooping  head. 

Atherton  respected  his  silence  a  moment  before  he 
again  suggested,  as  lightly  as  before, "  Perhaps  she  is 
magnanimous." 

"  No,"  said  Halleck,  with  the  effect  of  having  also 
given  that  theory  consideration.  "  She  's  not  magnan- 
imous, poor  soul.  I  fancy  she  is  rather  a  narrow- 
minded  person,  with  strict  limitations  in  regard  to 
people  who  think  ill  —  or  too  well  —  of  her  husband." 

"Then  perhaps,"  said  Atherton,  with  the  air  of 
having  exhausted  conjecture,  "  she 's  obtuse." 

"  I  have  tried  to  think  that  too,"  replied  Halleck, 
"  but  I  can't  manage  it.  No,  there  are  only  two  ways 
out  of  it ;  the  fellow  has  abused  her  innocence  and 
made  her  believe  it 's  a  common  and  venial  affair  to  be 
brought  home  in  that  state,  or  else  she  's  playing  a 
part.  He  's  capable  of  telling  her  that  neither  you 
nor  I,  for  example,  ever  go  to  bed  sober.  But  she  is  n't 
obtuse  :  I  fancy  she 's  only  too  keen  in  all  the  sensibili- 
ties that  women  suffer  through  ;  and  I  'd  rather  think 
that  he  had  deluded  her  in  that  way,  than  that  she 
was  masquerading  about  it,  for  she  strikes  me  as  an 
uncommonly  truthful  person.  I  suppose  you  know 
whom  I  'm  talking  about,  Atherton  ?  "  he  said,  with  a 
sudden  look  at  his  friend's  face  across  the  table. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  I  'in  sorry  it 's 
come  to  this  already.  Though  I  suppose  you  're  not 
altogether  surprised." 

"  No ;  something  of  the  kind  was  to  be  expected," 
Halleck  sighed,  and  rolled  his  cane  up  and  down  on 
the  arms  of  his  chair.  "  I  hope  we  know  the  worst." 

"Perhaps  we  do.  But  I  recollect  a  wise  remark 
you  made  the  first  time  we  talked  of  these  people," 
said  Atherton,  replying  to  the  mood  rather  than  the 
speech  of  his  friend.  "  You  suggested  that  we  rather 

21 


322  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

liked  to  grieve  over  the  pretty  girls  that  other  fellows 
marry,  and  that  we  never  thought  of  the  plain  ones 
as  suffering." 

"  Oh,  I  had  n't  any  data  for  my  pity  in  this  case, 
then,"  replied  Halleck.  "  I  'm  willing  to  allow  that  a 
plain  woman  would  suffer  under  the  same  circum- 
stances ;  and  I  think  I  should  be  capable  of  pitying 
her.  But  I'll  confess  that  the  notion  of  a  pretty 
woman's  sorrow  is  more  intolerable ;  there 's  no  use 
denying  a  fact  so  universally  recognized  by  the  male 
consciousness.  I  take  my  share  of  shame  for  it.  I 
wonder  why  it  is  ?  Pretty  women  always  seein  to 
appeal  to  us  as  more  dependent  and  childlike.  I 
dare  say  they  're  not." 

"  Some  of  them  are  quite  able  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves," said  Atherton.  "  I  Ve  known  striking  in- 
stances of  the  kind.  How  do  you  know  but  the 
object  of  your  superfluous  pity  was  cheerful  because 
fate  had  delivered  her  husband,  bound  forever,  into 
her  hand,  through  this  little  escapade  of  his  ? " 

"  Is  n't  that  rather  a  coarse  suggestion  ? "  asked 
Halleck. 

"  Very  likely.  I  suggest  it ;  I  don't  assert  it.  But 
I  fancy  that  wives  sometimes  like  a  permanent  griev- 
ance that  is  always  at  hand,  no  matter  what  the  mere 
passing  occasion  of  the  particular  disagreement  is. 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  detected  obscure  appeals 
to  such  a  weapon  in  domestic  interviews  at  which 
I  Ve  assisted  in  the  way  of  business." 

"  Don't,  Atherton  ! "  cried  Halleck. 

"  Don't  how  ?  In  this  particular  case,  or  in  regard 
to  wives  generally.  We  can't  do  women  a  greater 
injustice  than  not  to  account  for  a  vast  deal  of  human 
nature  in  them.  You  may  be  sure  that  things  have  n't 
come  to  the  present  pass  with  those  people  without 
blame  on  both  sides." 

"  Oh,  do  you  defend  a  man  for  such  beastliness,  by 


A  M'ODERN  INSTANCE.  323 

that  stale  old  plea  of  blame  on  botn  sides  ? "  demanded 
Halleck,  indignantly. 

"No;  but  I  should  like  to  know  wnai  she  had 
said  or  done  to  provoke  it,  before  I  excused  her  alto- 
gether." 

"  You  would !     Imagine  the  case  reversed." 

"  It  is  n't  imaginable." 

"  You  think  there  is  a  special  code  of  morals  for 
women,  —  sins  and  shames  for  them  that  are  no  sins 
and  shames  for  us  ! " 

"No,  I  don't  think  that!  I  merely  suggest  that 
you  don't  idealize  the  victim  in  this  instance.  I  dare 
say  she  has  n't  suffered  half  as  much  as  you  have. 
Remember  that  she  's  a  person  of  commonplace  tra- 
ditions, and  probably  took  a  simple  view  of  the 
matter,  and  let  it  go  as  something  that  could  not  be 
helped." 

"  No,  that  would  not  do,  either,"  said  Halleck. 

"  You  're  hard  to  please.  Suppose  we  imagine  her 
proud  enough  to  face  you  down  on  the  fact,  for  his 
sake  ;  too  proud  to  revenge  her  disgrace  on  you — " 

"  Oh,  you  come  back  to  your  old  plea  of  magna- 
nimity !  Atherton,  it  makes  me  sick  at  heart  to 
think  of  that  poor  creature.  That  look  of  hers  haunts 
me  !  I  can't  get  rid  of  it ! " 

Atherton  sat  considering  his  friend  with  a  cunous 
smile.  "  Well,  I  'm  sorry  this  has  happened  to  you, 
Halleck." 

"  Oh,  why  do  you  say  that  to  me  ? "  demanded 
Halleck,  impatiently.  "Am  I  a  nervous  woman,  that 
I  must  be  kept  from  unpleasant  sights  and  disagree- 
able experiences  ?  If  there 's  anything  of  the  man 
about  me,  you  insult  it !  Why  not  be  a  little  sorry 
forAer?" 

"  I  'm  sorry  enough  for  her ;  but  I  suspect  that,  so 
far,  you  have  been  the  principal  sufferer.  She  's 
simpl^  accepted  the  fact,  and  survived  it." 


324  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  So  much  the  worse,  so  much  the  worse  ! "  groaned 
Halleck.  "  She  'd  better  have  died ! " 

"Well,  perhaps.  I  dare  say  she  thinks  it  will 
never  happen  again,  and  has  dismissed  the  subject ; 
while  you  've  had  it  happening  ever  since,  whenever 
you  've  thought  of  her." 

Halleck  struck  the  arms  of  his  chair  with  his 
clinched  hands.  "Confound  the  fellow  !  What  busi- 
ness has  he  to  come  back  into  my  way,  and  make  me 
think  about  his  wife  ?  Oh,  very  likely  it 's  quite  as 
you  say !  I  dare  say  she 's  stupidly  content  with 
him ;  that  she  's  forgiven  it  and  forgotten  all  about 
it.  Probably  she's  told  him  how  I  behaved,  and 
they  've  laughed  me  over  together.  But  does  that 
make  it  any  easier  to  bear  ? w 

"It  ought,"  said  Atherton.  "What  did  the  hus- 
band do  when  you  met  them  ? " 

"  Everything  but  tip  me  the  wink,  —  everything 
but  say,  in  so  many  words, '  You  see  I  've  made  it  all 
right  with  her :  don't  you  wish  you  knew  how  ? ' " 
Halleck  dropped  his  head,  with  a  wrathful  groan. 

"  I  fancy,"  said  Atherton,  thoughtfully,  "  that,  if  we 
really  knew  how,  it  would  surprise  us.  Married  life 
is  as  much  a  mystery  to  us  outsiders  as  the  life  to 
come,  almost.  The  ordinary  motives  don't  seem  to 
count;  it's  the  realm  of  unreason.  If  a  man  only 
makes  his  wife  suffer  enough,  she  finds  out  that  she 
loves  him  so  much  she  must  forgive  him.  And  then 
there 's  a  great  deal  in  their  being  bound.  They 
can't  live  together  in  enmity,  and  they  must  live 
together.  I  dare  say  the  offence  had  merely  worn 
itself  out  between  them." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say,"  Halleck  assented,  wearily.  "That 
is  n't  my  idea  of  marriage,  though." 

"  It 's  not  mine,  either,"  returned  Atherton.  "  The 
question  is  whether  it  is  n't  often  the  fact  in  regard 
to  such  people's  marriages." 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  325 

"Then  they  are  so  many  hells,"  cried  Halleck, 
"where  self-respect  perishes  with  resentment,  and 
the  husband  and  wife  are  enslaved  to  each  other. 
They  ought  to  be  broken  up  !  " 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Atherton,  soberly.  "  The 
sort  of  men  and  women  that  marriage  enslaves  would 
be  vastly  more  wretched  and  mischievous  if  they 
were  set  free.  I  believe  that  the  hell  people  make 
for  themselves  is  n't  at  all  a  bad  place  for  them. 
It 's  the  best  place  for  them." 

"Oh,  I  know  your  doctrine,"  said  Halleck,  rising. 
"  It 's  horrible !  How  a  man  with  any  kindness  in 
his  heart  can  harbor  such  a  cold-blooded  philosophy 
/  don't  understand.  I  wish  you  joy  of  it.  Good 
i»ight,"  he  added,  gloomily,  taking  his  hat  from  the 
table.  "  It  serves  me  right  for  coming  to  you  with  a 
matter  that  I  ought  to  have  been  man  enough  to  keep 
to  myself." 

Atherton  followed  him  toward  the  door.  "  It  won't 
do  you  any  harm  to  consider  your  perplexity  in  the 
light  of  my  philosophy.  An  unhappy  marriage  is  n't 
the  only  hell,  nor  the  worst." 

Halleck  turned.  "  What  could  be  a  worse  hell  than 
marriage  without  love  ? "  he  demanded,  fiercely. 

"Love  without  marriage,"  said  Atherton. 

Halleck  looked  sharply  at  his  friend.  Then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  turned  again  and  swung 
out  of  the  door.  "  You  're  too  esoteric  for  rne.  It 's 
quite  time  I  was  gone." 

The  way  through  Clover  Street  was  not  the  shortest 
way  home ;  but  he  climbed  the  hill  and  passed  the 
little  house.  He  wished  to  rehabilitate  in  its  pathetic 
beauty  the  image  which  his  friend's  conjectures  had 
jarred,  distorted,  insulted  ;  and  he  lingered  for  a  mo- 
ment before  the  door  where  this  vision  had  claimed 
his  pity  for  anguish  that  no  after  serenity  could 
repudiate.  The  silence  in  which  the  house  was 


326  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

wrapped  was  like  another  fold  of  the  mystery  which 
involved  him.  The  night  wind  rose  in  a  sudden 
gust,  and  made  the  neighboring  lamp  flare,  and  his 
shadow  wavered  across  the  pavement  like  the  figure 
of  a  drunken  man.  This,  and  not  that  other,  was  the 
image  which  he  saw. 


MODERN  INSTANCE.  327 


XXVII. 

"  OF  course,'*  said  Marcia,  when  she  and  Bartley 
recurred  to  the  subject  of  her  visit  to  Equity,  "  I  have 
always  felt  as  if  I  should  like  to  have  you  with  me, 
so  as  to  keep  people  from  talking,  and  show  that  it 's 
all  right  between  you  and  father.  But  if  you  don't 
wish  to  go,  I  can't  ask  it." 

"  I  understand  what  you  mean,  and  I  should  like 
to  gratify  you,"  said  Bartley.  "  Not  that  I  care  a  rap 
what  all  the  people  in  Equity  think.  I  '11  tell  you 
what  I  '11  do,  I  '11  go  down  there  with  you  and  hang 
round  a  day  or  two ;  and  then  I  '11  come  after  you, 
when  your  time  's  up,  and  stay  a  day  or  two  there. 
I  could  n't  stand  three  weeks  in  Equity." 

In  the  end,  he  behaved  very  handsomely.  He 
dressed  Flavia  out  to  kill,  as  he  said,  in  lace  hoods 
and  embroidered  long-clothes,  for  which  he  tossed 
over  half  the  ready-made  stock  of  the  great  dry-goods 
stores ;  and  he  made  Marcia  get  herself  a  new  suit 
throughout,  with  a  bonnet  to  match,  which  she  thought 
she  could  not  afford,  but  he  said  he  should  manage  it 
somehow.  In  Equity  he  spared  no  pains  to  deepen 
the  impression  of  his  success  in  Boston,  and  he  was 
affable  with  everybody.  He  hailed  his  friends  acrosa 
the  street,  waving  his  hand  to  them,  and  shouting 
out  a  jolly  greeting.  He  visited  the  hotel  office  and 
the  stores  to  meet  the  loungers  there ;  he  stepped  into 
the  printing-office,  and  congratulated  Henry  Bird  on 
having  stopped  the  Free  Press  and  devoted  him- 
•elf  to  job-work.  He  said,  "  Hello,  Marilla !  Hello, 


328  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

Hannah ! "  and  he  stood  a  good  while  beside  the  lattei 
at  her  case,  joking  and  laughing.  He  had  no  resent- 
ments. He  stopped  old  Morrison  on  the  street  and 
shook  hands  with  him.  "  Well,  Mr.  Morrison,  do  you 
find  it  as  easy  to  get  Hannah's  wages  advanced  nowa- 
days as  you  used  to  ? " 

As  for  his  relations  with  Squire  Gaylord,  he  flat- 
tened public  conjecture  out  like  a  pancake,  as  he  told 
Marcia,  by  making  the  old  gentleman  walk  arm-and- 
arm  with  him  the  whole  length  of  the  village  street 
the  morning  after  his  arrival.  "And  I  never  saw 
your  honored  father  look  as  if  he  enjoyed  a  thing 
less,"  added  Hartley.  "  Well,  what 's  the  use  ?  He 
could  n't  help  himself."  They  had  arrived  on  Friday 
evening,  and,  after  spending  Saturday  in  this  social 
way,  Bartley  magnanimously  went  with  Marcia  to 
church.  He  was  in  good  spirits,  and  he  shook  hands, 
right  and  left,  as  he  came  out  of  church.  In  the 
afternoon  he  had  up  the  best  team  from  the  hotel 
stable,  and  took  Marcia  the  Long  Drive,  which  they 
had  taken  the  day  of  their  engagement.  He  could 
not  be  contented  without  pushing  the  perambulator 
out  after  tea,  and  making  Marcia  walk  beside  it,  to 
let  people  see  them  with  the  baby. 

He  went  away  the  next  morning  on  an  early  train, 
after  a  parting  which  he  made  very  cheery,  and  a 
promise  to  come  down  again  as  soon  as  he  could 
manage  it.  Marcia  watched  him  drive  off  toward  the 
station  in  the  hotel  barge,  and  then  she  went  upstairs 
to  their  room,  where  she  had  been  so  long  a  young 
girl,  and  where  now  their  child  lay  sleeping.  The 
little  one  seemed  the  least  part  of  all  the  change  that 
had  taken  place.  In  this  room  she  used  to  sit  and 
think  of  him ;  she  used  to  fly  up  thither  when  he 
came  unexpectedly,  and  order  her  hair  or  change  a 
ribbon  of  her  dress,  that  she  might  please  him  better ; 
at  these  windows  she  used  to  sit  and  watch,  and  long 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  329 

for  his  coming ;  from  these  she  saw  him  go  by  that 
day  when  she  thought  she  should  see  him  no  more, 
and  took  heart  of  her  despair  to  risk  the  wild  chance 
that  made  him  hers.  There  was  a  deadly,  unsympa- 
thetic stillness  in  the  room  which  seemed  to  leave  to 
her  all  the  responsibility  for  what  she  had  done. 

The  days  began  to  go  by  in  a  sunny,  still,  mid- 
summer monotony.  She  pushed  the  baby  out  in  its 
carriage,  and  saw  the  summer  boarders  walking  or 
driving  through  the  streets ;  she  returned  the  visits 
that  the  neighbors  paid  her ;  indoors  she  helped  her 
mother  about  the  housework.  An  image  of  her 
maiden  life  reinstated  itself.  At  times  it  seemed 
almost  as  if  she  had  dreamed  her  marriage.  When  she 
looked  at  her  baby  in  these  moods,  she  thought  she 
was  dreaming  yet.  A  young  wife  suddenly  parted 
for  the  first  time  from  her  husband,  in  whose  intense 
possession  she  has  lost  her  individual  existence,  and 
devolving  upon  her  old  separate  personality,  must 
have  strong  fancies,  strange  sensations.  Marcia's 
marriage  had  been  full  of  such  shocks  and  storms 
as  might  well  have  left  her  dazed  in  their  entire 
cessation. 

"  She  seems  to  be  pretty  well  satisfied  here,"  said 
her  father,  one  evening  when  she  had  gone  upstairs 
with  her  sleeping  baby  in  her  arms. 

"  She  seems  to  be  pretty  quiet,"  her  mother  non- 
sommittally  assented. 

"  M-yes,"  snarled  the  Squire,  and  he  fell  into  a  long 
revery,  while  Mrs.  Gaylord  went  on  crocheting  the 
baby  a  bib,  and  the  smell  of  the  petunia-bed  under 
the  window  came  in  through  the  mosquito  netting 
"  M-yes,"  he  resumed,  "  I  guess  you  're  right.  I  guess 
it 's  only  quiet.  I  guess  she  ain't  any  more  likeiy  tc 
be  satisfied  than  the  rest  of  us." 

"  I  don't  sen  why  she  should  n't  be,"  said  Mrs.  Gay- 
lord,  resenting  the  compassion  in  the  Squire's  tone* 


330  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

with  that  curious  jealousy  a  wife  feels  for  her  bus- 
band's  indulgence  of  their  daughter.  "  She  's  had  hei 
way." 

"  She  's  had  her  way,  poor  girl,  —  yes.  But  I 
don't  know  as  it  satisfies  people  to  have  their  way, 
always." 

Doubtless  Mrs.  Gaylord  saw  that  her  husband 
wished  to  talk  about  Marcia,  and  must  be  helped  to 
do  so  by  a  little  perverseness.  "I  don't  know  but 
what  most  of  folks  would  say  't  she  'd  made  out 
pretty  well.  I  guess  she  's  got  a  good  provider." 

"  She  did  n't  need  any  provider,"  said  the  Squire 
haughtily. 

"  No  ;  but  so  long  as  she  would  have  something, 
it's  well  enough  that  she  should  have  a  provider." 
Mrs.  Gaylord  felt  that  this  was  reasoning,  and  she 
smoothed  out  so  much  of  the  bib  as  she  had  crocheted 
across  her  knees  with  an  air  of  self- content.  "You 
can't  have  everything  in  a  husband,"  she  added,  "  and 
Marcia  ought  to  know  that,  by  this  time." 

"  I  Ve  no  doubt  she  knows  it,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  Why,  what  makes  you  think  she  's  disappointed 
any  ? "  Mrs.  Gaylord  came  plump  to  the  question  at 
last. 

"Nothing  she  ever  said,"  returned  her  husband 
promptly.  "  She  'd  die,  first.  When  I  was  up  there 
I  thought  she  talked  about  him  too  much  to  be  feel- 
ing just  right  about  him.  It  was  Bartley  this  and 
Bartley  that,  the  whole  while.  She  was  always 
wanting  me  to  say  that  I  thought  she  had  done  right 
to  marry  him.  I  did  sort  of  say  it,  at  last,  —  to  please 
her.  But  I  kept  thinking  that,  if  she  felt  sure  of  it, 
she  would  n't  want  to  talk  it  into  me  so.  Now,  she 
never  mentions  him  at  all,  if  she  can  help  it.  She 
writes  to  him  every  day,  and  she  hears  from  him  often 
enough,  —  postals,  mostly;  but  she  don't  talk  about 
Bartley,  Bartley  1 "  The  Squire  stretched  his  lips 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  331 

back  from  his  teeth,  and  inhaled  a  long  breath,  as  ha 
rubbed  his  chin. 

"  You  don't  suppose  anything 's  happened  since  you 
was  up  there,"  said  Mrs.  Gaylord. 

"  Nothing  but  what 's  happened  from  the  start. 
He 's  happened.  He  keeps  happening  right  along,  J 
guess." 

Mrs.  Gaylord  found  herself  upon  the  point  of  ex* 
periencing  a  painful  emotion  of  sympathy,  but  she 
saved  herself  by  saying:  "Well,  Mr.  Gaylord,  I 
don't  know  as  you  Ve  got  anybody  but  yourself  to 
thank  for  it  all  You  got  him  here,  in  the  first 
place."  She  took  one  of  the  kerosene  lamps  from 
the  table,  and  went  upstairs,  leaving  him  to  follow 
at  his  will. 

Marcia  sometimes  went  out  to  the  Squire's  office 
in  the  morning,  carrying  her  baby  with  her,  and  prop- 
ping her  with  law-books  on  a  newspaper  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor,  while  she  dusted  the  shelves,  or  sat 
down  for  one  of  the  desultory  talks  in  the  satisfac- 
tory silences  which  she  had  with  her  father. 

He  usually  found  her  there  when  he  came  up  from 
the  post-office,  with  the  morning  mail  in  the  top  of 
his  hat:  the  last  evening's  Events,  —  which  Bart- 
ley  had  said  must  pass  for  a  letter  from  him  when  he 
did  not  write,  —  and  a  letter  or  a  postal  card  from 
him.  She  read  these,  and  gave  her  father  any  news 
or  message  that  Bartley  sent ;  and  then  she  sat  down 
at  his  table  to  answer  them.  But  one  morning,  after 
she  had  been  at  home  nearly  a  month,  she  received  a 
letter  for  which  she  postponed  Bartley's  postal.  "  It 's 
from  Olive  Halleck  ! "  she  said,  with  a  glance  at  the 
handwriting  on  the  envelope ;  and  she  tore  it  open, 
and  ran  it  through.  "  Yes,  and  they  '11  come  here, 
any  time  I  let  them  know.  They've  been  at  Ni- 
agara, and  they  've  come  down  the  St.  Lawrence  to 
Quebec,  and  they  will  be  at  North  Conway  the  last 


332  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

of  next  week.  Now,  father,  I  want  to  do  something 
for  them ! "  she  cried,  feeling  an  American  daugh- 
ter's right  to  dispose  of  her  father,  and  all  his  pos- 
sessions, for  the  behoof  of  her  friends  at  any  time. 
"  I  want  they  should  come  to  the  house." 

"  Well,  I  guess  there  won't  be  any  trouble  about 
that,  if  you  think  they  can  put  up  with  our  way  of 
living."  He  smiled  at  her  over  his  spectacles. 

"  Our  way  of  living  !  Put  up  with  it !  I  should 
hope  as  much  !  They  're  just  the  kind  of  people  that 
will  put  up  with  anything,  because  they've  had 
everything.  And  because  they're  all  as  sweet  and 
good  as  they  can  be.  You  don't  know  them,  father, 
you  don't  half  know  them  !  Now,  just  get  right 
away," — she  pushed  him  out  of  the  chair  he  had 
taken  at  the  table,  —  "  and  let  me  write  to  Bartley 
this  instant.  He 's  got  to  come  when  they  're  here, 
and  I  '11  invite  them  to  come  over  at  once,  before  they 
get;  settled  at  North  Conway." 

He  gave  his  dry  chuckle  to  see  her  so  fired  with 
pleasure,  and  he  enjoyed  the  ardor  with  which  she 
drove  him  up  out  of  his  chair,  and  dashed  off  her  let- 
ters. This  was  her  old  way ;  he  would  have  liked 
the  prospect  of  the  Hallecks  coming,  because  it  made 
ais  girl  so  happy,  if  for  nothing  else. 

"  Father,  I  will  tell  you  about  Ben  Halleck,"  she 
said,  pounding  her  letter  to  Olive  with  the  thick  of 
her  hand  to  make  the  envelope  stick.  "  You  know 
that  lameness  of  his  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  it  came  from  his  being  thrown  down  by 
another  boy  when  he  was  at  school.  He  knew  the 
boy  that  did  it ;  and  the  boy  must  have  known  that 
Mr.  Halleck  knew  it,  but  he  never  said  a  word  to 
show  that  he  was  sorry,  or  did  anything  to  make  up 
for  it.  He 's  a  man  now,  and  lives  there  in  Boston, 
and  Ben  Halleck  often  meets  him.  He  says  that  if 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  333 

the  man  can  stand  it  he  can.  Don't  you  think  that  'g 
grand  ?  When  I  heard  that,  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  I  wanted  Flavia  to  belong  to  Ben  Halleck's 
church,  — •  or  the  church  he  did  belong  to  ;  he  does  n't 
belong  to  any  now  ! " 

"He  couldn't  have  got  any  damages  for  such  a 
thing  anyway,"  the  Squire  said. 

Marcia  paid  no  heed  to  this  legal  opinion  of  the 
case.  She  took  off  her  father's  hat  to  put  the  letters 
into  it,  and,  replacing  it  on  his  head,  "  Now  don't  you 
forget  them,  father,"  she  cried. 

She  gathered  up  her  baby  and  hurried  into  the 
house,  where  she  began  her  preparations  for  her 
guests. 

The  elder  Miss  Hallecks  had  announced  with  much 
love,  through  Olive,  that  they  should  not  be  able  to 
come  to  Equity,  and  Ben  was  to  bring  Olive  alone. 
Marcia  decided  that  Ben  should  have  the  guest-cham- 
ber, and  Olive  should  have  her  room  ;  she  and  Bart- 
ley  could  take  the  little  room  in  the  L  while  their 
guests  remained. 

But  when  the  Hallecks  came,  it  appeared  that  Ben 
had  engaged  quarters  for  himself  at  the  hotel,  and  no 
expostulation  would  prevail  with  him  to  come  to 
Squire  Gaylord's  house. 

"  We  have  to  humor  him  in  such  things,  Mrs.  Hub- 
bard,"  Olive  explained,  to  Marcia's  distress.  "And 
most  people  get  on  very  well  without  him." 

This  explanation  was  of  course  given  in  Halleck's 
presence.  His  sister  added,  behind  his  back  :  "  Ben 
has  a  perfectly  morbid  dread  of  giving  trouble  in  a 
house.  He  won't  let  us  do  anything  to  make  him 
comfortable  at  home,  and  the  idea  that  you  should 
attempt  it  drove  him  distracted.  You  must  n't  mind 
it  I  don't  believe  he'd  have  come  if  his  bachelor 
freedom  could  n't  have  been  respected ;  and  we  both 
wanted  to  come  very  much." 


334  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

The  Halleoks  arrived  in  the  forenoon,  and  Bartlej 
was  due  in  the  evening.  But  during  the  afternoon 
Marcia  had  a  telegram  saying  that  he  could  not  come 
till  two  days  later,  and  asking  her  to  postpone  the 
picnic  she  had  planned.  The  Hallecks  were  only 
going  to  stay  three  days,  and  the  suspicion  that 
Bartley  had  delayed  in  order  to  leave  himself  as  little 
time  as  possible  with  them  rankled  in  her  heart  so 
that  she  could  not  keep  it  to  herself  when  they  met. 

"  Was  that  what  made  you  give  me  such  a  cool 
reception  ?"  he  asked,  with  cynical  good-nature. 
"  Well,  you  're  mistaken  ;  I  don't  suppose  I  mind  the 
Hallecks  any  more  than  they  do  me.  I  '11  tell  you 
why  I  stayed.  Some  people  dropped  down  on  With- 
erby,  who  were  a  little  out  of  his  line,  —  fashionable 
people  that  he  had  asked  to  let  him  know  if  they 
ever  came  to  Boston ;  and  when  they  did  come  and 
let  him  know,  he  did  n't  know  what  to  do  about  it, 
and  he  called  on  me  to  help  him  out.  I  've  been 
almost  boarding  with  Witherby  for  the  last  three 
days ;  and  I  've  been  barouching  round  all  over  the 
moral  vineyard  with  his  friends :  out  to  Mount  Au- 
burn and  the  Washington  Elm,  and  Bunker  Hill,  and 
Brookline,  and  the  Art  Museum,  and  Lexington ; 
we  've  been  down  the  harbor,  and  we  have  n't  left  a 
monumental  stone  unturned.  They  were  going  north, 
and  they  came  down  here  with  me ;  and  I  got  them 
to  stop  over  a  day  for  the  picnic." 

"  You  got  them  to  stop  over  for  the  picnic  ?  Why, 
T  don't  want  anybody  but  ourselves,  Bartley  !  This 
spoils  everything." 

"The  Hallecks  are  not  ourselves,"  said  Bartley, 
"  And  these  are  jolly  people ;  they  11  help  to  make  it 
go  off." 

"  Who  are  they  ? "  asked  Marcia,  with  provisional 
self-control. 

"  Oh,  some  people  that  Witherby  met  in  Portland 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  335 

at  Willett's,  who  used  to  have  the  logging-camp  out 
here." 

"  That  Montreal  woman ! "  cried  Marcia,  with  fatal 
divination. 

Bartley  laughed.  "  Yes,  Mrs.  Macallister  and  her 
husband.  She 's  a  regular  case.  She  '11  amuse  you." 

Marcia's  passionate  eyes  blazed.  "  She  shall  never 
come  to  my  picnic  in  the  world ! " 

"  No  ? "  Bartley  looked  at  her  in  a  certain  way. 
"  She  shall  come  to  mine,  then.  There  will  be  two 
picnics.  The  more  the  merrier." 

Marcia  gasped,  as  if  she  felt  the  clutch  in  which 
her  husband  had  her  tightening  on  her  heart.  She 
said  that  she  could  only  carry  her  point  against  him 
at  the  cost  of  disgraceful  division  before  the  Hallecks, 
for  which  he  would  not  care  in  the  least.  She  moved 
her  head  a  little  from  side  to  side,  like  one  that 
breathes  a  stifling  air.  "  Oh,  let  her  come,"  she  said 
quietly,  at  last. 

"  Now  you  're  talking  business,"  said  Bartley.  "  I 
have  n't  forgotten  the  little  snub  Mrs.  Macallister 
gave  me,  and  you  '11  see  me  pay  her  off." 

Marcia  made  no  answer,  but  went  downstairs  to 
put  what  face  she  could  upon  the  matter  to  Olive, 
whom  she  had  left  alone  in  the  parlor,  while  she  ran 
up  with  Bartley  immediately  upon  his  arrival  to  de- 
mand an  explanation  of  him.  In  her  wrathful  haste 
she  had  forgotten  to  kiss  him,  and  she  now  remem- 
bered that  he  had  not  looked  at  the  baby,  which  she 
had  all  the  time  had  in  her  arms. 

The  picnic  was  to  be  in  a  pretty  glen  three  or 
four  miles  north  of  the  village,  where  there  was  shade 
on  a  bit  of  level  green,  and  a  spring  bubbling  out  of 
a  fern-hung  bluff :  from  which  you  looked  down  the 
glen  over  a  stretch  of  the  river.  Marcia  had  planned 
that  they  were  to  drive  thither  in  a  four-seated  carry- 
all, but  the  addition  of  Bartley 's  guests  disarranged 
this. 


336  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  There 's  only  one  way,"  said  Mrs.  Macallister,  who 
had  driven  up  with  her  husband  from  the  hotel  to 
the  Squire's  house  in  a  buggy.  "Mr.  Halleck  tells 
me  he  does  n't  know  how  to  drive,  and  my  husband 
does  n't  know  the  way.  Mr.  Hubbard  must  get  in 
here  with  me,  and  you  must  take  Mr.  Macallister 
in  your  party."  She  looked  authoritatively  at  the 
others. 

"  First  rate ! "  cried  Bartley,  climbing  to  the  seat 
which  Mr.  Macallister  left  vacant.  "  We  11  lead  the 
way." 

Those  who  followed  had  difficulty  in  keeping  their 
buggy  in  sight.  Sometimes  Bartley  stopped  long 
enough  for  them  to  come  up,  and  then,  after  a  word 
or  two  of  gay  banter,  was  off  again. 

They  had  taken  possession  of  the  picnic  grounds, 
and  Mrs.  Macallister  was  disposing  shawls  for  rugs 
and  drapery,  while  Bartley,  who  had  got  the  horse  out, 
and  tethered  where  he  could  graze,  was  pushing  the 
buggy  out  of  the  way  by  the  shafts,  when  the  carryall 
came  up. 

"  Don't  we  look  quite  domestic  ? "  she  asked  of  the 
arriving  company,  in  her  neat  English  tone,  and  her 
rising  English  inflection.  "You  know  I  like  this," 
she  added,  singling  Halleck  out  for  her  remark,  and 
making  it  as  if  it  were  brilliant.  "  I  like  being  out 
of  doors,  don't  you  know.  Bat  there  's  one  thing  I 
don't  like  :  we  were  n't  able  to  get  a  drop  of  cham- 
pagne at  that  ridiculous  hotel.  They  told  us  they 
were  not  allowed  to  keep  '  intoxicating  liquors.' 
Now  I  call  that  jolly  stupid,  you  know.  I  don't 
know  whatever  we  shall  do  if  you  have  n't  brought 
something." 

"  I  believe  this  is  a  famous  spring,"  said  Halleck. 

"  How  droll  you  are  !  Spring,  indeed  ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Macallister.  "  Is  that  the  way  you  let  your  brother 
make  game  of  people,  Miss  Halleck  ? "  She  directed 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  337 

a  good  deal  of  her  rattle  at  Olive ;  she  scarcely  spoke 
to  Marcia,  but  she  was  nevertheless  furtively  cbserv- 
ant  of  her.  Mr.  Macallister  had  his  rattle  too,  which, 
after  trying  it  unsatisfactorily  upon  Marcia,  he  plied 
almost  exclusively  for  Olive.  He  made  puns;  he 
asked  conundrums ;  he  had  all  the  accomplishments 
which  keep  people  going  in  a  lively,  mirthful,  colo- 
nial society ;  and  he  had  the  idea  that  he  must  pay 
attentions  and  promote  repartee.  His  wife  and  he 
played  into  each  other's  hands  in  their  jeux  d' esprit ; 
and  kept  Olive's  inquiring  Boston  mind  at  work  in 
the  vain  endeavor  to  account  for  and  to  place  them 
socially.  Bartley  hung  about  Mrs.  Macallister,  and 
was  nearly  as  obedient  as  her  husband.  He  felt  that 
the  Hallecks  disapproved  his  behavior,  and  that  made 
him  enjoy  it ;  he  was  almost  rudely  negligent  of 
Olive. 

The  composition  of  the  party  left  Marcia  and  Hal- 
leek  necessarily  to  each  other,  and  she  accepted  this 
arrangement  in  a  sort  of  passive  seriousness;  but 
Halleck  saw  that  her  thoughts  wandered  from  her 
talk  with  him,  and  that  her  eyes  were  always  turning 
with  painful  anxiety  to  Bartley.  After  their  lunch, 
which  left  them  with  the  whole  afternoon  before  them, 
Marcia  said,  in  a  timid  effort  to  resume  her  best 
leadership  of  the  affair,  "  Bartley,  don't  you  think 
they  would  like  to  see  the  view  from  the  Devil's 
Backbone  ? " 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  the  view  from  the  Devil's 
Backbone  ? "  he  asked  in  turn  of  Mrs.  Macallister. 

"And  what  is  the  Devil's  Backbone?"  she  inquired. 

"  It 's  a  ridge  of  rocks  on  the  bluff  above  here," 
said  Bartley,  nodding  his  head  vaguely  towards  the 
bank. 

"  And  how  do  you  get  to  it  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Macallis- 
ter, pointing  her  pretty  chin  at  him  in  lifting  hei 
head  to  look. 


338  A  MODERN  INSTANCE 

"Walk." 

"  Thanks,  then ;  I  shall  try  to  be  satisfied  with  me 
own  backbone,"  said  Mrs.  Macallister,  who  had  that 
freedom  in  alluding  to  her  anatomy  which  marks  the 
superior  civilization  of  Great  Britain  and  its  colonial 
dependencies. 

"  Carry  you,"  suggested  Bartley. 

"  I  dare  say  you  'd  be  very  sure-footed ;  but  I  'd 
quite  enough  of  donkeys  in  the  hills  at  home." 

Bartley  roared  with  the  resolution  of  a  man  who 
will  enjoy  a  joke  at  his  own  expense. 

Marcia  turned  away,  and  referred  her  invitation, 
with  a  glance,  to  Olive. 

"  I  don't  believe  Miss  Halleck  wants  to  go,"  said 
Mr.  Macallister. 

"  I  could  n't,"  said  Olive,  regretfully.  "  I  've  neither 
the  feet  nor  the  head  for  climbing  over  high  rocky 
places." 

Marcia  was  about  to  sink  down  on  the  grass  again, 
from  which  she  had  risen,  in  the  hopes  that  her 
proposition  would  succeed,  when  Bartley  called  out : 
"  Why  don't  you  show  Ben  the  Devil's  Backbone  ? 
The  view  is  worth  seeing,  Halleck." 

"  Would  you  like  to  go? "  asked  Marcia,  listlessly. 

"Yes,  I  should,  very  much,"  said  Halleck,  scram- 
bling to  his  feet,  "  if  it  won't  tire  you  too  much  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Marcia,  gently,  and  led  the  way. 
She  kept  ahead  of  him  in  the  climb,  as  she  easily 
could,  and  she  answered  briefly  to  all  he  said.  When 
they  arrived  at  the  top,  "  There  is  the  view,"  she  said 
coldly.  She  waved  her  hand  toward  the  valley ;  she 
made  a  sound  in  her  throat  as  if  she  would  speak 
again,  but  her  voice  died  in  one  broken  sob. 

Halleck  stood  with  downcast  eyes,  and  trembled. 
He  durst  not  look  at  her,  not  for  what  he  should  see 
in  her  face,  but  for  what  she  should  see  in  his :  the 
anguish  of  intelligence,  the  helpless  pity.  He  beat 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  339 

the  rock  at  his  feet  with  the  ferule  of  his  stick,  and 
could  not  lift  his  head  again.  When  he  did,  she 
stood  turned  from  him  and  drying  her  eyes  on  her 
handkerchief.  Their  looks  met,  and  she  trusted  her 
self-betrayal  to  him  without  any  attempt  at  excuse 
or  explanation. 

"  I  will  send  Hubbard  up  to  help  you  down,"  said 
Halleck. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  sadly. 

He  clambered  down  the  side  of  the  bluff,  and 
Bartley  started  to  his  feet  in  guilty  alarm  when  be 
saw  him  approach.  "  What 's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  But  I  think  you  had  better  help  Mrs. 
Hubbard  down  the  bluff." 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Macallister.  "A  panic!  how 
interesting  !" 

Halleck  did  not  respond.  He  threw  himself  on 
the  grass,  and  left  her  to  change  or  pursue  the  sub- 
ject as  she  liked.  Bartley  showed  more  savoir-faire 
when  he  came  back  with  Marcia,  after  an  absence 
long  enough  to  let  her  remove  the  traces  of  her 
tears. 

"  Pretty  rough  on  your  game  foot,  Halleck.  But 
Marcia  had  got  it  into  her  head  that  it  was  n't  safe  to 
trust  you  to  help  her  down,  even  after  you  had  helped 
her  up." 

"Ben,"  said  Olive,  when  they  were  seated  in  the 
train  the  next  day,  "  why  did  you  send  Marcia's  hus- 
band up  there  to  her  ? "  She  had  the  effect  of  not 
having  rested  till  she  could  ask  him. 

"  She  was  crying,"  he  answered. 

"What  do  you  suppose  could  have  been  the 
matter  ? " 

"  What  you  do :  she  was  miserable  about  his  co- 
quetting with  that  woman." 

"  Yes.     I  could  see  that  she  hated  terribly  to  have 


340  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

her  come ;  and  that  she  felt  put  down  by  her  all  the 
time.  What  kind  of  person  is  Mrs.  Macallister  ? " 

"Oh,  a  fool,"  replied  HaUeck.  "All  flirts  are 
fools." 

"  I  think  she 's  more  wicked  than  foolish." 

"  Oh,  no,  flirts  are  better  than  they  seem,  —  perhaps 
because  men  are  better  than  flirts  think.  But  they 
make  misery  just  the  same." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Olive.  "  Poor  Marcia,  poor  Marcia ! 
But  I  suppose  that,  if  it  were  not  Mrs.  Macallister,  it 
would  be  some  one  else." 

"  Given  Bartley  Hubbard,  —  yes." 

"  And  given  Marcia.  Well,  —  I  don't  like  being 
mixed  up  with  other  people's  unhappiness,  Ben. 
It 's  dangerous." 

"  I  don't  like  it  either.  But  you  can't  very  well 
keep  out  of  people's  unhappiness  in  this  world." 

"  No,"  assented  Olive,  ruefully. 

The  talk  fell,  and  Halleck  attempted  to  read  a 
newspaper,  while  Olive  looked  out  of  the  window. 
She  presently  turned  to  him.  "  Did  you  ever  fancy 
any  resemblance  between  Mrs.  Hubbard  and  the 
photograph  of  that  girl  we  used  to  joke  about,  —  your 
lost  love  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Halleck. 

"  What 's  become  of  it,  —  the  photograph  ?  I  can't 
find  it  any  more;  I  wanted  to  show  it  to  her  one 
day." 

"  I  destroyed  it.  I  burnt  it  the  first  evening  after 
I  had  met  Mrs.  Hubbard.  It  seemed  to  me  that  it 
Was  n't  right  to  keep  it." 

"  Why,  you  don't  think  it  was  her  photograph  !  " 

"  I  think  it  was,"  said  Halleck.  He  took  up  his 
paper  again,  and  read  on  till  they  left  the  cars. 

That  evening,  when  Halleck  came  to  his  sister's 
room  to  bid  her  good  night,  she  threw  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  plain,  common  face,  in 
which  she  saw  a  heavenly  beauty. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  341 

"  Ben,  dear,"  she  said,  "  if  you  don't  turn  out  the 
happiest  man  in  the  world,  I  shall  say  there 's  no  use 
in  being  good  ! " 

"  Perhaps  you  'd  better  say  that  after  all  I  was  n't 
good,"  he  suggested,  with  a  melancholy  smile. 

"  I  shall  know  better,"  she  retorted. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter,  now  ?  " 

"  Nothing.     I  was  only  thinking.     Good  night ! w 

"  Good  night,"  said  Halleck.  "  You  seem  to  think 
my  room  is  better  than  my  company,  good  as  I  am." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  laughing  in  that  breathless  way 
which  means  weeping  next,  with  women.  Her  eyes 
glistened. 

"  Well,"  said  Halleck,  limping  out  of  the  room, 
"  you  're  quite  good-looking  with  your  hair  down, 
Olive." 

"  All  girls  are,"  she  answered.  She  leaned  out  of 
her  doorway  to  watch  him  as  he  limped  down  the 
corridor  to  his  own  room.  There  was  something 
pathetic,  something  disappointed  and  weary  in  the 
movement  of  his  figure,  and  when  she  shut  her  door, 
and  ran  back  to  her  mirror,  she  could  not  see  th6 
good-looking  girl  there  for  her  tears. 


342  A  MODERN  INSTANCE 


XXVIII 

"  HELLO  ! "  said  Hartley,  one  day  after  the  autumn 
fcad  brought  back  all  the  suramsr  wanderers  to  the 
city,  "  I  have  n't  seen  you  for  a  month  of  Sundays." 
He  had  Eicker  by  the  hand,  and  he  pulled  him  into 
a  doorway  to  be  a  little  out  of  the  rush  on  the  crowded 
pavement,  while  they  chatted. 

"  That 's  because  I  can't  afford  to  go  to  the  White 
Mountains,  and  swell  round  at  the  aristocratic  sum- 
mer resorts  like  some  people,"  returned  Eicker.  "I  'm 
a  horny-handed  son  of  toil,  myself." 

"  Pshaw  ! "  said  Bartley.  "  Who  is  n't  ?  I  Ve  been 
here  hard  at  it,  except  for  three  days  at  one  time  and 
five  at  another." 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  I  saw  in  the  Eecord 
personals,  that  Mr.  Hubbard,  of  the  Events,  was 
spending  the  summer  months  with  his  father-in-law, 
Judge  Gaylord,  among  the  spurs  of  the  White  Moun- 
tains. I  supposed  you  wrote  it  yourself.  You  're 
full  of  ideas  about  journalism." 

"  Oh,  come  !  I  would  n't  work  that  joke  any  more. 
Look  here,  Eicker,  1 11  tell  you  what  I  want.  I  want 
you  to  dine  with  me." 

"  Dines  people  ! "  said  Eicker,  in  an  awestricken 
aside. 

"  No,  —  I  mean  business  !  You  Ve  never  seen  my 
kid  yet :  and  you  Ve  never  seen  my  house.  I  want 
you  to  come.  We  Ve  all  got  back,  and  we  're  in  nice 
running  order.  What  day  are  you  disengaged  ? " 

"  Let   me   see,"   said   Eicker,   thoughtfully.     "  So 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  343 

many  engagements !  Wait !  I  could  squeeze  your 
dinner  in  some  time  next  month,  Hubbard." 

"All  right.  But  suppose  we  say  next  Sunday. 
Six  is  the  hour." 

"  Six  ?  Oh,  I  can't  dine  in  the  middle  of  the  fore- 
noon that  way  !  Make  it  later  ! " 

"  Well,  we  '11  say  one  P.  M.,  then.  I  know  your 
dinner  hour.  We  shall  expect  you." 

"  Better  not,  till  I  come."  Bartley  knew  that  this 
was  Kicker's  way  of  accepting,  and  he  said  nothing, 
but  he  answered  his  next  question  with  easy  joviality. 
"  How  are  you  making  it  with  old  Witherby  ? " 

"  Oh,  hand  over  hand !  Witherby  and  I  were 
formed  for  each  other.  By,  by  ! " 

"  No,  hold  on  !  Why  don't  you  come  to  the  club 
any  more  ?  " 

"  We-e-11 !  The  club  is  n't  what  it  used  to  be," 
said  Bartley,  confidentially. 

"  Why,  of  course !  It  is  n't  just  the  thing  for  a 
gentleman  moving  in  the  select  circles  of  Clover 
Street,  as  you  do ;  but  why  not  come,  sometimes,  in 
the  character  of  distinguished  guest,  and  encourage 
your  humble  friends  ?  I  was  talking  with  a  lot  of  the 
fellows  about  you  the  other  night." 

"  Were  they  abusing  me  ? " 

"They  were  speaking  the  truth  about  you,  and 
I  stopped  them.  I  told  them  that  sort  of  thing 
would  n't  do.  Why,  you  're  getting  fat ! " 

"  You  're  behind  the  times,  Kicker,"  said  Bartley. 
"  I  began  to  get  fat  six  months  ago.  I  don't  wonder 
the  Chronicle  Abstract  is  running  down  on  your 
hands.  Come  round  and  try  my  tivoli  on  Sunday. 
That 's  what  gives  a  man  girth,  my  boy."  He  tapped 
Kicker  lightly  on  his  hollow  waistcoat,  and  left  him 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

Kicker  leaned  out  of  the  doorway  and  followed 
him  down  the  street  with  a  troubled  eye.  He  had 


344  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

taken  stock  in  Bartley,  as  the  saying  is,  and  his  heart 
misgave  him  that  he  should  lose  on  the  investment ; 
he  could  not  have  sold  out  to  any  of  their  friends  for 
twenty  cents  on  the  dollar.  Nothing  that  any  one 
could  lay  his  finger  on  had  happened,  and  yet  there 
had  been  a  general  loss  of  confidence  in  that  particu- 
lar stock.  Eicker  himself  had  lost  confidence  in  it, 
and  when  he  lightly  mentioned  that  talk  at  the  club, 
with  a  lot  of  the  fellows,  he  had  a  serious  wish  to  get 
at  Bartley  some  time,  and  see  what  it  was  that  was 
beginning  to  make  people  mistrust  him.  The  fellows 
who  liked  him  at  first  and  wished  him  well,  and  be- 
lieved in  his  talent,  had  mostly  dropped  him.  Bart- 
ley's  associates  were  now  the  most  raffish  set  on  the 
press,  or  the  green  hands  ;  and  something  had  brought 
this  to  pass  in  less  than  two  years.  Eicker  had  be- 
lieved that  it  was  Witherby ;  at  the  club  he  had  con- 
tended that  it  was  Bartley's  association  with  With- 
erby that  made  people  doubtful  of  him.  As  for  those 
ideas  that  Bartley  had  advanced  in  their  discussion 
of  journalism,  he  had  considered  it  all  mere  young 
man's  nonsense  that  Bartley  would  outgrow.  But 
now,  as  he  looked  at  Bartley's  back,  he  had  his  mis 
givings;  it  struck  him  as  the  back  of  a  degenerate 
man,  and  that  increasing  bulk  seemed  not  to  repre- 
sent an  increase  of  wholesome  substance,  but  a  corky, 
buoyant  tissue,  materially  responsive  to  some  sort  of 
moral  dry-rot. 

Bartley  pushed  on  to  the  Events  office  in  a  blithe 
humor.  Witherby  had  recently  advanced  his  salary ; 
he  was  giving  him  fifty  dollars  a  week  now ;  and 
Bartley  had  made  himself  necessary  in  more  ways 
than  one.  He  was  not  only  readily  serviceable, 
but  since  he  had  volunteered  to  write  those  adver- 
tising articles  for  an  advance  of  pay,  he  was  in  pos- 
session of  business  facts  that  could  be  made  very 
uncomfortable  to  Witherby  in  the  event  of  a  dis- 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  345 

B.greement.  Witherby  not  only  paid  him  well,  but 
treated  him  well ;  he  even  suffered  Bartley  to  bully 
him  a  little,  and  let  him  foresee  the  day  when 
he  must  be  recognized  as  the  real  editor  of  the 
Events. 

At  home  everything  went  on  smoothly.  The  baby 
was  well  and  growing  fast ;  she  was  beginning  to  ex- 
plode airy  bubbles  on  her  pretty  lips  that  a  fond 
superstition  might  interpret  as  papa  and  mamma. 
She  had  passed  that  stage  in  which  a  man  regards 
his  child  with  despair ;  she  had  passed  out  of  slip- 
pery and  evasive  doughiness  into  a  firm  tangibility 
that  made  it  some  pleasure  to  hold  her. 

Bartley  liked  to  take  her  on  his  lap,  to  feel  the 
spring  of  her  little  legs,  as  she  tried  to  rise  on  her 
feet;  he  liked  to  have  her  stretch  out  her  arms  to 
him  from  her  mother's  embrace.  The  innocent  ten- 
derness which  he  experienced  at  these  moments  was 
satisfactory  proof  to  him  that  he  was  a  very  good 
fellow,  if  not  a  good  man.  When  he  spent  an  even- 
ing at  home,  with  Flavia  in  his  lap  for  half  an  hour 
after  dinner,  he  felt  so  domestic  that  he  seemed  to 
himself  to  be  spending  all  his  evenings  at  home  now. 
Once  or  twice  it  had  happened,  when  the  housemaid 
was  out,  that  he  went  to  the  door  with  the  baby  on 
his  arm,  and  answered  the  ring  of  Olive  and  Ben 
Halleck,  or  of  Olive  and  one  or  both  of  the  interme- 
diary sisters. 

The  Hallecks  were  the  only  people  at  all  apt  to 
call  in  the  evening,  and  Bartley  ran  so  little  chance 
of  meeting  any  one  else,  when  he  opened  the  door 
with  Flavia  on  his  arm,  that  probably  he  would  not 
have  thought  it  worth  while  to  put  her  down,  even 
if  he  had  not  rather  enjoyed  meeting  them  in  that 
domestic  phase  He  had  not  only  long  felt  how  in- 
tensely Olive  disliked  him,  but  he  had  observed  that 
somehow  it  embarrassed  Ben  Halleck  to  see  him  ia 


346  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

his  character  of  devoted  young  father.  At  those 
times  he  used  to  rally  his  old  friend  upon  getting 
married,  and  laughed  at  the  confusion  to  which  the 
joke  put  him.  He  said  more  than  once  afterwards, 
that  he  did  not  see  what  fun  Ben  Halleck  got  out  of 
coming  there ;  it  must  bore  even  such  a  dull  fellow 
as  he  was  to  sit  a  whole  evening  like  that  and  not 
say  twenty  words.  "  Perhaps  he 's  livelier  when  I  'm 
not  here,  though,"  he  suggested.  "  I  always  did  seem 
to  throw  a  wet  hlanket  on  Ben  Halleck."  He  did 
not  at  all  begrudge  Halleck's  having  a  better  time  in 
his  absence  if  he  could. 

One  night  when  the  bell  rung  Bartley  rose,  and 
saying,  "  I  wonder  which  of  the  tribe  it  is  this  time," 
went  to  the  door.  But  when  he  opened  it,  instead 
of  hearing  the  well-known  voices,  Marcia  listened 
through  a  hesitating  silence,  which  ended  in  a  loud 
laugh  from  without,  and  a  cry  from  her  husband  of 
"  Well,  I  swear !  Why,  you  infamous  old  scoundrel, 
come  in  out  of  the  wet ! "  There  ensued,  amidst 
Bartley's  voluble  greetings,  a  noise  of  shy  shuffling 
about  in  the  hall,  as  of  a  man  not  perfectly  master 
of  his  footing  under  social  pressure,  a  sound  of  husky, 
embarrassed  whispering,  a  dispute  about  doffing  an 
overcoat,  and  question  as  to  the  disposition  of  a  hat, 
and  then  Bartley  reappeared,  driving  before  him  the 
lank,  long  figure  of  a  man  who  blinked  in  the  flash  of 
gaslight,  as  Bartley  turned  it  all  up  in  the  chandelier 
overhead,  and  rubbed  his  immense  hands  in  cruel 
embarrassment  at  the  beauty  of  Marcia,  set  like  a 
jewel  in  the  pretty  comfort  of  the  little  parlor. 

"  Mr.  Kinney,  Mrs.  Hubbard,"  said  Bartley ;  and 
having  accomplished  the  introduction,  he  hit  Kinney 
a  thwack  between  the  shoulders  with  the  flat  of  his 
hand  that  drove  him  stumbling  across  Marcia's  foot- 
stool  into  the  seat  on  the  sofa  to  which  she  had  point* 
ed  him.  "  You  old  fool,  where  did  you  com*  from  ? " 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  347 

The  refined  warmth  of  Bartley's  welcome  seemed 
to  make  Kinney  feel  at  home,  in  spite  of  his  trepida- 
tions at  Marcia's  presence.  He  bobbed  his  head  for- 
ward, and  stretched  his  mouth  wide,  in  one  of  his 
vast,  silent  laughs.  "  Better  ask  where  I  'm  goin'  to." 

"  Well,  I  '11  ask  that,  if  it  'U  be  any  accommoda- 
tion. Where  you  going  ? " 

"Illinois." 

"  For  a  divorce  ? " 

"  Try  again." 

"  To  get  married  ?  " 

"  Maybe,  after  I  've  made  my  pile."  Kinney's  eyes 
wandered  about  the  room,  and  took  in  its  evidences 
of  prosperity,  with  simple,  unenvious  admiration ;  he 
ended  with  a  furtive  glimpse  of  Marcia,  who  seemed 
to  be  a  climax  of  good  luck,  too  dazzling  for  contem- 
plation ;  he  withdrew  his  glance  from  her  as  if  hurt 
by  her  splendor,  and  became  serious. 

"  Well,  you  're  the  last  man  I  ever  expected  to  see 
again,"  said  Bartley,  sitting  down  with  the  baby  in 
his  lap,  and  contemplating  Kinney  with  deliberation. 
Kinney  was  dressed  in  a  long  frock-coat  of  cheap 
diagonals,  black  cassimere  pantaloons,  a  blue  neck- 
tie, and  a  celluloid  collar.  He  had  evidently  had  one 
of  his  encounters  with  a  cheap  clothier,  in  which  the 
Jew  had  triumphed ;  but  he  had  not  yet  visited  a 
barber,  and  his  hair  and  beard  were  as  shaggy  as  they 
were  in  the  logging-camp ;  his  hands  and  face  were 
as  brown  as  leather.  "But  I'm  as  glad,"  Bartley 
added,  "  as  if  you  had  telegraphed  you  were  coming. 
Of  course,  you  're  going  to  put  up  with  us."  He  had 
observed  Kinney's  awe  of  Marcia,  and  he  added  this 
touch  to  let  Kinney  see  that  he  was  master  in  his 
house,  and  lord  even  of  that  radiant  presence. 

Kinney  started  in  real  distress.  *  Oh,  no !  I 
could  n't  do  it !  I  've  got  all  my  things  round  at  the 
Quincy  House." 


348  A   MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  Trunk  or  bag  ?  "  asked  Bartley. 

"  Well,  it 's  a  bag  ;  but  —  " 

"  All  right.  We  '11  step  round  and  get  it  together 
I  generally  take  a  little  stroll  out,  after  dinner,"  said 
Bartley,  tranquilly. 

Kinney  was  beginning  again,  when  Marc-ia,  who  had 
been  stealing  some  covert  looks  at  him  under  her  eye- 
lashes, while  she  put  together  the  sewing  she  was  at 
work  on,  preparatory  to  going  upstairs  with  the  baby, 
joined  Bartley  in  his  invitation. 

"  You  wont  make  us  the  least  trouble,  Mr.  Kin- 
ney," she  said.  "  The  guest-chamber  is  all  ready,  and 
we  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  stay." 

Kinney  must  have  felt  the  note  of  sincerity  in  hex 
words.  He  hesitated,  and  Bartley  clinched  his  tacit 
assent  with  a  quotation :  " '  The  chief  ornament  of  a 
house  is  the  guests  who  frequent  it.'  Who  says 
that  ? " 

Kinney's  little  blue  eyes  twinkled.  "Old  Emer- 
son." 

"  Well,  I  agree  with  him.  We  do  n't  care  anything 
about  your  company,  Kinney ;  but  we  want  you  for 
decorative  purposes." 

Kinney  opened  his  mouth  for  another  noiseless 
laugh,  and  said,  "  Well,  fix  it  to  suit  yourselves." 

"  I  '11  carry  her  up  for  you,"  said  Bartley  to  Marcia, 
who  was  stooping  forward  to  take  the  baby  from  him, 
"  if  Mr.  Kinney  will  excuse  us  a  moment." 

"  All  right,"  said  Kinney. 

Bartley  ventured  upon  this  bold  move,  because  he 
had  found  that  it  was  always  best  to  have  things  out 
with  Marcia  at  once,  and,  if  she  was  going  to  take  his 
hospitality  to  Kinney  in  bad  part,  he  wanted  to  get 
through  the  trouble.  "  That  was  very  nice  of  you, 
Marcia,"  he  said,  when  they  were  in  their  own  room. 
*  My  invitation  rather  slipped  out,  and  I  did  n't  know 
how  you  would  like  it." 


A  MODERN    INSTANCE.  349 

*  Oh,  I  'm  very  glad  to  have  him  stay.  I  never  for* 
get  about  his  wanting  to  lend  you  money  that  time," 
said  Marcia,  opening  the  baby's  crib. 

"You're  a  mighty  good  fellow,  Marcia!"  cried 
,  Bartley,  kissing  her  over  the  top  of  the  baby's  head 
'as  she  took  it  from  him.  "And  I'm  not  half  good 
enough  for  you.  You  never  forget  a  benefit.  Nor  an 
injury  either,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh.  "And  I'm 
afraid  that  I  forget  one  about  as  easily  as  the  other." 

Marcia's  eyes  suffused  themselves  at  this  touch  of 
self-analysis  which,  coming  from  Bartley,  had  its 
sadness ;  but  she  said  nothing,  and  he  was  eager  to 
escape  and  get  back  to  their  guest.  He  told  her  he 
should  go  out  with  Kinney,  and  that  she  was  not  to 
sit  up,  for  they  might  be  out  late. 

In  his  pride,  he  took  Kinney  down  to  the  Events 
office,  and  unlocked  it,  and  lit  the  gas,  so  as  to  show 
him  the  editorial  rooms  ;  and  then  he  passed  him  into 
one  of  the  theatres,  where  they  saw  part  of  an  Offen- 
bach opera ;  after  that  they  went  to  the  Parker  House, 
and  had  a  New  York  stew.  Kinney  said  he  must  be 
off  by  the  Sunday-night  train,  and  Bartley  thought 
it  well  to  concentrate  as  many  dazzling  effects  upon 
him  as  he  could  in  the  single  evening  at  his  disposal. 
He  only  regretted  that  it  was  not  the  club  night,  for 
he  would  have  liked  to  take  Kinney  round,  and  show 
him  some  of  the  fellows. 

"  But  never  mind,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  going  to  have 
one  of  them  dine  with  us  to-morrow,  and  you  '11  see 
about  the  best  of  the  lot." 

"  Well,  sir,"  observed  Kinney,  when  they  had  got 
back  into  Bartley's  parlor,  and  he  was  again  drinking 
in  its  prettiness  in  the  subdued  light  of  the  shaded 
argand  burner,  "  I  hain't  seen  anything  yet  that  suits 
me  much  better  than  this." 

"  It  is  n't  bad,"  said  Bartley.  He  had  got  up  a 
plate  of  crackers  and  two  bottles  of  tivoli,  and  waa 


350  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

opening  the  first.  He  offered  the  beaded  goblet  to 
Kinney. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Kinney.  "  Not  any.  I  never 
do." 

Bartley  quaffed  half  of  it  in  tolerant  content.  "  I 
always  do.  Find  it  takes  my  nerves  down  at  the  end 
of  a  hard  week's  work.  Well,  now,  tell  me  some- 
thing about  yourself.  What  are  you  going  to  do  in 
Illinois?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  've  got  a  friend  out  there  that 's  got  a 
coal  mine,  and  he  thinks  he  can  work  me  in  some- 
how. I  guess  he  can ;  I  Ve  tried  pretty  much  every- 
thing. Why  don't  you  come  out  there  and  start  a 
newspaper  ?  We  Ve  got  a  town  that 's  bound  to 
grow." 

It  amused  Bartley  to  hear  Kinney  bragging  already 
of  a  town  that  he  had  never  seen.  He  winked  a 
good-natured  disdain  over  the  rim  of  the  goblet  which 
he  tilted  on  his  lips.  "And  give  up  my  chances 
here  ? "  he  said,  as  he  set  the  goblet  down. 

"  Well,  that 's  so  ! "  said  Kinney,  responding  to  the 
sense  of  the  wink.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Bartley,  I 
did  n't  know  as  you  5d  speak  to  me  when  I  rung  your 
bell  to-night.  But  thinks  I  to  myself,  { Dumn  it ! 
look  here  !  He  can't  more  'n  slam  the  door  in  your 
face,  anyway.  And  you  Ve  hankered  after  him  so 
long,  —  go  and  take  your  chances,  you  old  buzzard  ! ' 
And  so  I  got  your  address  at  the  Events  office 
pretty  early  this  morning ;  and  I  went  round  all  day 
screwing  my  courage  up,  as  old  Macbeth  says,  —  or 
Bitchloo,  /don't  know  which  it  was,  —  and  at  last  I 
did  get  myself  so  that  I  toed  the  mark  like  a  little 
man." 

Bartley  laughed  so  that  he  could  hardly  get  the 
«ork  out  of  the  second  bottle. 

"  You  see,"  said  Kinney,  leaning  forward,  and 
taking  Bartley's  plump,  soft  knee  between  his  thumb 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  351 

and  forefinger,  "I  felt  awfully  about  tKe  way  we 
parted  that  night.  I  felt  lad.  I  had  n't  acted  well, 
just  to  my  own  mind,  and  it  cut  me  to  have  you 
refuse  my  money ;  it  cut  me  all  the  worse  because  I 
saw  that  you  was  partly  right ;  I  had  n't  been  quite 
fair  with  you.  But  I  always  did  admire  you,  and 
you  know  it.  Some  them  little  things  you  used  to 
get  off  in  the  old  Free  Press  —  well,  I  could  see  't 
you  was  smart.  And  I  liked  you ;  and  it  kind  o* 
hurt  me  when  I  thought  you  'd  been  makin'  fun 
o'  me  to  that  woman.  Well,  I  could  see  't  I  was  a 
dumned  old  fool,  afterwards.  And  I  always  wanted 
to  tell  you  so.  And  I  always  did  hope  that  I  should 
be  able  to  offer  you  that  money  again,  twice  over, 
and  get  you  to  take  it  just  to  show  that  you  did  n't 
bear  malice."  Bartley  looked  up,  with  quickened 
interest.  "  But  I  can't  do  it  now,  sir,"  added  Kinney. 

"  Why,  what 's  happened  ? "  asked  Bartley,  in  a 
disappointed  tone,  pouring  out  his  second  glass  from 
his  second  bottle. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Kinney,  with  a  certain  reluctance, 
"I  undertook  to  provision  th«  camp  on  spec,  last 
winter,  and  —  well,  you  know,  I  always  run  a  little 
on  food  for  the  brain,"  —  Bartley  broke  into  a  remi- 
niscent cackle,  and  Kinney  smiled  forlornly,  —  "  and 
thinks  I,  'Dumn  it,  I  '11  give  'e/in  the  real  thing,  every 
time.'  And  I  got  hold  of  a  health-food  circular ;  and 
I  sent  on  for  a  half  a  dozen  barrels  of  their  crackers 
and  half  a  dozen  of  their  flour,  and  a  lot  of  cracked 
cocoa,  and  I  put  the  camp  on  a  health-food  basis.  I 
calculated  to  bring  those  fellows  out  in  the  spring 
physically  vigorous  and  mentally  enlightened.  But 
my  goodness  !  After  the  first  bakin'  o'  that  flour  and 
the  first  round  o'  them  crackers,  it  was  all  up  !  Fel- 
lows got  so  mad  that  I  suppose  if  I  had  n't  gone 
back  to  doughnuts,  and  sody  biscuits,  and  Japan  tea. 
they  'd  'a'  burnt  the  camp  down.  Of  course  I  yielded, 
.But  it  ruined  me,  Bartley  •,  it  bu'st  me." 


S52  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

Bartley  dropped  Ms  arms  upon  the  table,  and,  hid- 
ing his  face  upon  them,  laughed  and  laughed  again. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Kinney,  with  sad  satisfaction, 
"  I  'm  glad  to  see  that  you  don't  need  any  money 
from  me."  He  had  been  taking  another  survey  of 
the  parlor  and  the  dining-room  beyond.  "I  don't 
know  as  I  ever  saw  anybody  much  better  fixed.  I 
should  say  that  you  was  a  success ;  and  you  deserve 
it.  You  're  a  smart  fellow,  Bart,  and  you  're  a  good 
fellow.  You  're  a  generous  fellow."  Kinney's  voice 
shook  with  emotion. 

Bartley,  having  lifted  his  wet  and  flushed  face, 
managed  to  say :  "  Oh,  there  's  nothing  mean  about 
me,  Kinney,"  as  he  felt  blindly  for  the  beer  bottles, 
which  he  shook  in  succession  with  an  evident  sur- 
prise at  finding  them  empty. 

"  You  've  acted  like  a  brother  to  me,  Bartley  Hub- 
bard,"  continued  Kinney,  "  and  I  sha'n't  forget  it  in 
a  hurry.  I  guess  it  would  about  broke  my  heart,  if 
you  had  n't  taken  it  just  the  way  you  did  to-night. 
I  should  like  to  see  the  man  that  did  n't  use  you  well, 
or  the  woman,  either ! "  said  Kinney,  with  vague  de- 
fiance. "  Though  they  don't  seem  to  have  done  so  bad 
by  you,"  he  added,  in  recognition  of  Marcia's  merit. 
"  I  should  say  that  was  the  biggest  part  of  your  luck 
She  's  a  lady,  sir,  every  inch  of  her.  Mighty  different 
stripe  from  that  Mont-real  woman  that  cut  up  so  that 
night." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Macallister  was  n't  such  a  scamp,  after 
all,"  said  Bartley,  with  magnanimity. 

"  Well,  sir,  you  can  say  so.  I  ain't  going  to  be  too 
strict  with  a  girl ;  but  I  like  tc  see  a  married  woman 
act  like  a  married  woman.  Now,  I  don't  think  you  'd 
catch  Mrs.  Hubbard  flirting  with  a  young  fellow  the 
way  that  woman  went  on  with  you  that  night? 
Bartley  grinned.  "Well,  sir,  you're  getting 
Knd  you  're  happy." 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  353 

«  Perfect  clam,"  said  Bartley. 

"  Such  a  position  as  you  've  got,  —  such  a  house, 
Buch  a  wife,  and  such  a  baby !  Well,"  said  Kiniiey, 
rising,  " it 's  a  little  too  much  for  me" 

"  Want  to  go  to  bed  ? "  asked  Bartley. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  I  better  turn  in,"  returned  Kinney, 
despairingly. 

"  Show  you  the  way." 

Bartley  tripped  up  stairs  with  Kinney's  bag,  which 
they  had  left  standing  in  the  hall,  while  Kinney 
creaked  carefully  after  him  ;  and  so  led  the  way  to 
the  guest-chamber,  and  turned  up  the  gaslight,  which 
had  been  left  burning  low. 

Kinney  stood  erect,  dwarfing  the  room,  and  looked 
round  on  the  pink  chintzing,  and  soft  carpet,  and 
white  coverleted  bed,  and  lace-hooded  dressing-mir- 
ror, with  meek  veneration.  "  Well,  I  swear ! "  He 
said  no  more,  but  sat  hopelessly  down,  and  began  to 
pull  off  his  boots. 

He  was  in  the  same  humble  mood  the  next  morn- 
ing, when,  having  got  up  inordinately  early,  he  was 
found  trying  to  fix  his  mind  on  a  newspaper  by  Bart- 
ley, who  came  down  late  to  the  Sunday  breakfast, 
and  led  his  guest  into  the  dining-room.  Marcia,  in 
a  bewitching  morning-gown,  was  already  there,  hav- 
ing put  the  daintier  touches  to  the  meal  herself ;  and 
the  baby,  in  a  fresh  white  dress,  was  there  tied  into 
its  arm-chair  with  a  napkin,  and  beating  on  the  table 
with  a  spoon.  Bartley's  nonchalance  amidst  all  this 
impressed  Kinney  with  a  yet  more  poignant  sense  of 
his  superiority,  and  almost  deprived  him  of  the 
powers  of  speech.  When  after  breakfast  Bartley 
took  him  out  to  Cambridge  on  the  horse-cars,  and 
showed  him  the  College  buildings,  and  Memorial 
Hall,  and  the  Washington  Elm,  and  Mount  Auburn» 
Kinney  fell  into  such  a  cowed  and  broken  condition, 
Xhat  something  had  to  be  specially  done  to  put  him 

23 


354  ^  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

in  repair  against  Ricker's  coming  to  dinner.  Marcia 
luckily  thought  of  asking  him  if  he  would  like  to  see 
her  kitchen.  In  this  region  Kinney  found  himself 
at  home,  and  praised  its  neat  perfection  with  profes- 
sional intelligence.  Bartley  followed  them  rounc* 
with  Flavia  on  his  arm,  and  put  in  a  jocose  word  here 
and  there,  when  he  saw  Kinney  about  to  fall  a  prey 
to  his  respect  for  Marcia,  and  so  kept  him  going  till 
Bicker  rang.  He  contrived  to  give  Ricker  a  hint  of 
the  sort  of  man  he  had  on  his  hands,  and  loj  their 
joint  effort  they  had  Kinney  talking  about  himself  at 
dinner  before  he  knew  what  he  was  about.  He 
could  not  help  talking  well  upon  this  theme,  and  he 
had  them  so  vividly  interested,  as  he  poured  out  ad- 
venture after  adventure  in  his  strange  career,  that 
Bartley  began  to  be  proud  of  him. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Ricker,  when  he  came  to  a  pause, 
"  you  've  lived  a  romance." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Kinney,  looking  at  Bartley  /or  his 
approval,  "  and  I  Ve  always  thought  that,  if  I  ever 
got  run  clean  ashore,  high  and  dry,  I  'd  make  a  stag- 
ger to  write  it  out  and  do  something  with  it.  Do 
you  suppose  I  could  ? " 

"  I  promise  to  take  it  for  the  Sunday  edition  of 
the  Chronicle  Abstract,  whenever  you  get  it  ready," 
said  Ricker. 

Bartley  laid  his  hand  on  his  friend's  arm.  "It  *s 
bought  up,  old  fellow.  That  narrative  — '  Confessions 
of  an  Average  American  ' —  belongs  to  the  Events." 

They  had  their  laugh  at  this,  and  then  Ricker  said 
to  Kinney :  "  But  look  here,  my  friend  !  What 's  to 
prevent  our  interviewing  you  on  this  little  personal 
history  of  yours,  and  using  your  material  any  way 
we  like  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  you  've  put  your  head 
in  the  lion's  mouth." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  amongst  gentlemen,"  said  Kinney,  with 
an  innocent  swagger.  "  I  understand  that." 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  355 

-  Well,  I  don't  know  about  it,"  said  Kicker.  «  Hub- 
bard,  here,  is  used  to  all  sorts  of  hard  names ;  but 
I  Ve  never  had  that  epithet  applied  to  me  before." 

Kinney  doubled  himself  up  over  the  side  of  his 
chair  in  recognition  of  Kicker's  joke ;  and  when  Bart- 
ley  rose  and  asked  him  if  he  would  come  into  the  parlor 
and  have  a  cigar,  he  said,  with  a  wink,  no,  he  guessed 
he  would  stay  with  the  ladies.  He  waited  with 
great  mystery  till  the  folding-doors  were  closed,  and 
Bartley  had  stopped  peeping  through  the  crevice  be- 
tween them,  and  then  he  began  to  disengage  from 
his  watch-chain  the  golden  nugget,  shaped  to  a  rude 
sphere,  which  hung  there.  This  done,  he  asked  if  he 
might  put  it  on  the  little  necklace  —  a  christening  gift 
from  Mrs.  Halleck  —  which  the  baby  had  on,  to  see 
how  it  looked.  It  looked  very  well,  like  an  old  Ko- 
man  bolla,  though  neither  Kinney  nor  Marcia  knew 
it.  "  Guess  we  '11  let  it  stay  there,"  he  suggested, 
timidly. 

"  Mr.  Kinney ! "  cried  Marcia,  in  amaze,  "  I  can't 
let  you ! " 

"  Oh,  do  now,  ma'am  ! "  pleaded  the  big  fellow,  sim- 
ply. "  If  you  knew  how  much  good  it  does  me,  you 
would.  Why,  it's  been  like  heaven  to  me  to  get 
into  such  a  home  as  this  for  a  day, —  it  has  indeed." 

"  Like  heaven  ? "  said  Marcia,  turning  pale.  "  Oh, 
my!" 

"  Well,  I  don't  mean  any  harm.  What  I  mean  is, 
I  Ve  knocked  about  the  world  so  much,  and  never 
had  any  home  of  my  own,  that  to  see  folks  as  happy 
as  you  be  makes  me  happier  than  I  Ve  been  since  I 
don't  know  when.  Now,  you  let  it  stay.  It  was  tho 
first  piece  of  gold  I  picked  up  in  Calif orny  when 
I  went  out  there  in  '50,  and  it 's  about  the  last  ; 
I  did  n't  have  very  good  luck.  Well,  of  course !  I 
know  I  ain't  fit  to  give  it ;  but  I  want  to  do  it.  I 
ftink  Bartley 's  about  the  greatest  fellow  and  he 'a 


356  A  MODERN  INSTANCE, 

the  best  fellow  this  world  can  show.  That 's  the  way 
I  feel  about  him.  And  I  want  to  do  it.  Sho !  the 
thing  wa'n't  no  use  to  me !  " 

Marcia  always  gave  her  maid  of  all  work  Sunday 
afternoon,  and  she  would  not  trespass  upon  her  rule 
because  she  had  guests  that  day.  Except  for  the 
confusion  to  which  Kinney's  unexpected  gift  had 
put  her,  she  would  have  waited  for  him  to  join  the 
others  before  she  began  to  clear  away  the  dinner ; 
but  now  she  mechanically  began,  and  Kinney,  to 
whom  these  domestic  occupations  were  a  second  na- 
ture, joined  her  in  the  work,  equally  absent-minded 
in  the  fervor  of  his  petition. 

Bartley  suddenly  flung  open  the  doors.  "  My  dear, 
Mr.  Eicker  says  he  must  be  go — "  He  discovered 
Marcia  with  the  dish  of  potatoes  in  her  hand,  and 
Kinney  in  the  act  of  carrying  off  the  platter  of  tur- 
key. "  Look  here,  Eicker ! " 

Kinney  came  to  himself,  and,  opening  his  mouth 
above  the  platter  wide  enough  to  swallow  the  re- 
mains of  the  turkey,  slapped  his  leg  with  the  hand 
that  he  released  for  the  purpose,  and  shouted,  "  The 
ruling  passion,  Bartley,  the  ruling  passion  ! " 

The  men  roared ;  but  Marcia,  even  while  she  took 
in  the  situation,  did  not  see  anything  so  ridiculous  in 
it  as  they.  She  smiled  a  little  in  sympathy  with 
their  mirth,  and  then  said,  with  a  look  and  tone 
which  he  had  not  seen  or  heard  in  her  since  the  day 
of  their  picnic  at  Equity,  "  Come,  see  what  Mr.  Kin- 
ney has  given  baby,  Bartley." 

They  sat  up  talking  Kinney  over  after  he  was  gone ; 
but  even  at  ten  o'clock  Bartley  said  he  should  not 
go  to  bed ;  he  felt  like  writing. 


A.  MODERN  INSTANCE,  357 


XXIX 

BARTLEY  lived  well  now.  He  felt  that  he  could 
afford  it,  on  fifty  dollars  a  week ;  and  yet  somehow  he 
had  always  a  sheaf  of  unpaid  bills  on  hand.  Kent 
was  so  much,  the  butcher  so  much,  the  grocer  so 
much;  these  were  the  great  outlays,  and  he  knew 
just  what  they  were ;  but  the  sum  total  was  always 
much  larger  than  he  expected.  At  a  pinch,  he  bor- 
rowed ;  but  he  did  not  let  Marcia  know  of  this,  for 
she  would  have  starved  herself  to  pay  the  debt; 
what  was  worse,  she  would  have  wished  him  to 
starve  with  her.  He  kept  the  purse,  and  he  kept  the 
accounts ;  he  was  master  in  his  house,  and  he  meant 
to  be  so. 

The  pinch  always  seemed  to  come  in  the  matter 
of  clothes,  and  then  Marcia  gave  up  whatever  she 
wanted,  and  said  she  must  make  the  old  things  do. 
Bartley  hated  this ;  in  his  position  he  must  dress 
well,  and,  as  there  was  nothing  mean  about  him,  he 
wished  Marcia  to  dress  well  to.  Just  at  this  time  he 
had  set  his  heart  on  her  having  a  certain  sacque 
which  they  had  noticed  in  a  certain  window  one  day 
when  they  were  on  Washington  Street  together.  He 
surprised  her  a  week  later  by  bringing  the  sacque 
home  to  her,  and  he  surprised  himself  with  a  sealskin 
cap  which  he  had  long  coveted :  it  was  coming  win- 
ter, now,  and  for  half  a  dozen  days  of  the  season  he 
would  really  need  the  cap.  There  would  be  many 
days  when  it  would  be  comfortable,  and  many  others 
when  it  would  be  tolerable ;  and  he  looked  so  hand- 


358  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

some  in  it  that  Marcia  herself  could  not  quite  feel 
that  it  was  an  extravagance.  She  asked  him  how 
they  could  afford  both  of  the  things  at  once,  but  he 
answered  with  easy  mystery  that  he  had  provided 
the  funds ;  and  she  went  gayly  round  with  him  to 
call  on  the  Hallecks  that  evening  and  show  off  her 
sacque.  It  was  so  stylish  and  pretty  that  it  won  her 
a  compliment  from  Ben  Halleck,  which  she  noticed 
because  it  was  the  first  compliment,  or  anything  like 
it,  that  he  had  ever  paid  her.  She  repeated  it  to 
Bartley.  "  He  said  that  I  looked  like  a  Hungarian 
princess  that  he  saw  in  Vienna." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  has  a  hussar  kind  of  look  witk 
that  fur  trimming  and  that  broad  braid.  Did  any- 
body say  anything  about  my  cap  ? "  asked  Bartley 
with  burlesque  eagerness. 

"  Oh,  poor  Bartley  !  "  she  cried  in  laughing  triumph. 
"I  don't  believe  any  of  them  noticed  it;  and  you 
kept  twirling  it  round  in  your  hands  all  the  time  to 
make  them  look." 

"  Yes,  I  did  my  level  best,"  said  Bartley. 

They  had  a  jolly  time  about  that.  Marcia  was 
proud  of  her  sacque ;  when  she  took  it  off  and  held 
it  up  by  the  loop  in  the  neck,  so  as  to  realize  its  pret- 
tiness,  she  said  she  should  make  it  last  three  winters 
at  least ;  and  she  leaned  over  and  gave  Bartley  a 
sweet  kiss  of  gratitude  and  affection,  and  told  him 
not  to  try  to  make  up  for  it  by  extra  work,  but  to 
help  her  scrimp  for  it. 

"  I  'd  rather  do  the  extra  work,"  he  protested.  In 
fact  he  already  had  the  extra  work  done.  It  was 
something  that  he  felt  he  had  the  right  to  sell  out- 
side of  the  Events,  and  he  carried  his  manuscript  to 
Kicker  and  offered  it  to  him  for  his  Sunday  edition. 

Kicker  read  the  title  and  ran  his  eye  down  the  first 
slip,  and  then  glanced  quickly  at  Hubbard.  "  You 
don't  mean  it  ? " 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

*  Yes  I  do,"  said  Bartley.     "  Why  not  ? " 

"  I  thought  he  was  going  to  use  the  material  him- 
self some  time." 

Bartley  laughed.  "  He  use  the  material !  Why,  he 
can't  write,  any  more  than  a  hen  ;  he  can  make  tracks 
on  paper,  but  nobody  would  print  'em,  much  less  buy 
'em.  I  know  him ,  he  's  all  right.  It  would  n't 
hurt  the  material  for  his  purpose,  any  way  ;  and  he  '11 
be  tickled  to  death  when  he  sees  it.  If  he  ever  does. 
Look  here,  Ricker ! "  added  Bartley,  with  a  touch  of 
anger  at  the  hesitation  in  his  friend's  face,  "  if  you  're 
going  to  spring  any  conscientious  scruples  on  me,  I 
prefer  to  offer  my  manuscript  elsewhere.  I  give  you 
the  first  chance  at  it ;  but  it  need  n't  go  begging.  T)o 
you  suppose  I  'd  do  this  if  I  did  n't  understand  the 
man,  and  know  just  how  he  'd  take  it  ? " 

"  Why,  of  course,  Hubbard !  I  beg  your  pardon. 
If  you  say  it 's  all  right,  I  am  bound  to  be  satisfied. 
What  do  you  want  for  it  ? " 

"  Fifty  dollars." 

"  That 's  a  good  deal,  is  n't  it  ? " 

"  Yes,  it  is.  But  I  can't  afford  to  do  a  dishonorable 
thing  for  less  money,"  said  Bartley,  with  a  wink. 

The  next  Sunday,  when  Marcia  came  home  from 
church,  she  went  into  the  parlor  a  moment  to  speak 
to  Bartley  before  she  ran  upstairs  to  the  baby.  He 
was  writing,  and  she  put  her  left  hand  on  his  back 
while  with  her  right  she  held  her  sacque  slung  over 
her  shoulder  by  the  loop,  and  leaned  forward  with  a 
wandering  eye  on  the  papers  that  strewed  the  table- 
In  that  attitude  he  felt  her  pause  and  grow  absorbed, 
and  then  rigid ;  her  light  caress  tightened  into  a  grip. 
"  Why,  how  base  !  How  shameful !  That  man  shall 
never  enter  my  doors  again  !  Why,  it 's  stealing ! " 

"What '3  the  matter?  What  are  you  talking 
about  i. "  Bartley  looked  up  with  a  frown  of  prepa- 
ration. 


'860  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  This  ! "  cried  Marcia,  snatching  up  the  Chronicle. 
Abstract,  at  which  she  had  been  looking.  "  Have  n't 
you  seen  it  ?  Here 's  Mr.  Kinney's  life  all  written 
out !  And  when  he  said  that  he  was  going  to  keep 
it  and  write  it  out  himself.  That  thief  has  stolen 
it!" 

"  Look  out  how  you  talk,"  said  Bartley.  "  Kinney  's 
an  old  feol,  and  he  never  could  have  written  it  out  in 
the  world  —  " 

"  That  makes  no  difference.  He  said  that  he  told 
the  things  because  he  knew  he  was  among  gentlemen. 
A  great  gentleman  Mr.  Eicker  is  !  And  I  thought 
he  was  so  nice ! "  The  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes, 
which  flashed  again.  "  I  want  you  to  break  off  with 
him,  Bartley ;  I  don't  want  you  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  such  a  thief !  And  I  shall  be  proud  to  tell 
everybody  that  you  Ve  broken  off  with  him  because  he 
was  a  thief.  Oh,  Bartley  —  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue  ! "  shouted  her  husband. 

*  I  won't  hold  my  tongue  !    And  if  you  defend  — " 

"Don't  you  say  a  word  against  Eicker.  It's  all 
right,  I  tell  you.  You  don't  understand  such  things. 
You  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about.  I  —  I  — - 
I  wrote  the  thing  myself." 

He  could  face  her,  but  she  could  not  face  him. 
There  was  a  subsidence  in  her  proud  attitude,  as  if 
her  physical  strength  had  snapped  with  her  breaking 
spirit. 

"  There  's  no  theft  about  it,"  Bartley  went  on. 
"  Kinney  would  never  write  it  out,  and  if  he  did, 
I  've  put  the  material  in  better  shape  for  him  here 
than  he  could  ever  have  given  it.  Six  weeks  from 
now  nobody  will  remember  a  word  of  it ;  and  he 
could  tell  the  same  things  right  over  again,  and  they 
would  be  just  as  good  as  new."  He  went  on  to  argue 
the  point. 

She  seemed  not  to  have  listened  to  him.     When 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  361 

he  stopped,  she  said,  in  a  quiet,  passionless  voice,  "  1 
suppose  you  wrote  it  to  get  money  for  this  sacque." 

"  Yes  ;  I  did,"  replied  Bartley. 

She  dropped  it  on  the  floor  at  his  feet.  "  I  shall 
never  wear  it  again,"  she  said  in  the  same  tone,  and 
a  little  sigh  escaped  her. 

"  Use  your  pleasure  about  that,"  said  Bartley,  sit- 
ting down  to  his  writing  again,  as  she  turned  and  left 
the  room. 

She  went  upstairs  and  came  down  immediately, 
with  the  gold  nugget,  which  she  had  wrenched  from 
the  baby's  necklace,  and  laid  it  on  the  paper  before 
him.  "  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  spend  it  for  tivoli 
beer,"  she  suggested.  "  Flavia  shall  not  wear  it." 

"  I  '11  get  it  fitted  on  to  my  watch-chain."  Bartley 
slipped  it  into  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

The  sacque  still  lay  on  the  floor  at  his  feet ;  he 
pulled  his  chair  a  little  forward  and  put  his  feet  on 
it.  He  feigned  to  write  awhile  longer,  and  then  he 
folded  up  his  papers,  and  went  out,  leaving  Marcia 
to  make  her  Sunday  dinner  alone.  When  he  came 
home  late  at  night,  he  found  the  sacque  where  she 
had  dropped  it,  and  with  a  curse  he  picked  it  up  and 
hung  it  on  the  hat-rack  in  the  hall. 

He  slept  in  the  guest-chamber,  and  at  times  during 
the  night  the  child  cried  in  Marcia's  room  and  waked 
him ;  and  then  he  thought  he  heard  a  sound  of  sob- 
bing which  was  not  the  child's.  In  the  morning, 
when  he  came  down  to  breakfast,  Marcia  met  him 
with  swollen  eyes. 

"  Bartley,"  she  said  tremulously,  "  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  how  you  felt  justified  in  writing  out  Mr. 
Kinney's  life  in  that  way." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Bartley,  with  perfect  amiability, 
for  he  had  slept  off  his  anger,  and  he  really  felt  sorry 
to  see  her  so  unhappy,  "  I  would  tell  you  almost  any 
fching  you  want  on  any  other  subject ;  but  I  think  w^ 


362  A.  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

had  better  remand  that  one  to  the  safety  of  silence, 
and  go  upon  the  general  supposition  that  I  know 
what  I  'm  about." 

"  I  can't,  Bartley  ! " 

"  Can't  you  ?  Well,  that 's  a  pity."  He  pulled  his 
chair  to  the  breaki'ast-table.  "  It  seems  to  me  that 
girl's  imagination  always  fails  her  on  Mondays.  Can 
she  never  give  us  anything  but  hash  and  corn-bread 
when  she  's  going  to  wash  ?  However,  the  coffee  's 
good.  I  suppose  you  made  it  ?  " 

"  Bartley  ! "  persisted  Marcia,  "  I  want  to  believe  in 
everything  you  do,  —  I  want  to  be  proud,  of  it —  " 

"  That  will  be  difficult,"  suggested  Bartley,  with  an 
air  of  thoughtful  impartiality,  "  for  the  wife  of  a  news- 
paper man." 

"  No,  no  !  It  need  n't  be  !  It  must  n't  be !  If  you 
will  only  tell  me  —  "  She  stopped,  as  if  she  feared 
to  repeat  her  offence. 

Bartley  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  her 
intense  face  with  a  smile.  "  Tell  you  that  in  some 
way  I  had  Kinney's  authority  to  use  his  facts?  Well, 
I  should  have  done  that  yesterday  if  you  had  let  me. 
In  the  first  place,  Kinney  's  the  most  helpless  ass  in 
the  world.  He  could  never  have  used  his  own  facts. 
In  the  second  place,  there  was  hardly  anything  in  his 
rigmarole  the  other  day  that  he  had  n't  told  me  down 
there  in  the  lumber  camp,  with  full  authority  to  use 
it  in  any  way  I  liked ;  and  I  don't  see  how  he  could 
revoke  that  authority.  That 's  the  way  I  reasoned 
about  it." 

"I  see, — I  see!"  said  Marcia,  with  humble  eagerness. 

"  Well,  that 's  all  there  is  about  it.  What  I  've 
done  can't  hurt  Kinney.  If  he  ever  does  want  to 
write  his  old  facts  out,  he  '11  be  glad  to  take  my  re- 
port of  them,  and  —  spoil  it,"  said  Bartley,  ending 
with  a  laugh. 

"And  if —  if  there  had  been  anything  wrong  about 


A  MODERN    INSTANCE.  363 

it,"  said  Marcia,  anxious  to  justify  him  to  herself, 
*  Mr.  Eicker  would  have  told  you  so  when  you  offered 
him  the  article." 

"  I  don't  think  Mr.  Eickei  would  have  ventured  on 
iny  impertinence  with  me,"  said  Bartley,  with  gran- 
deur. But  he  lapsed  into  his  wonted,  easy  way  of 
taking  everything.  "What  are  you  driving  at,  Marsh? 
I  don't  care  particularly  for  what  happened  yesterday. 
We  've  had  rows  enough  before,  and  I  dare  say  we 
shall  have  them  again.  You  gave  me  a  bad  quarter 
of  an  hour,  and  you  gave  yourself "  —  he  looked  at 
her  tear-stained  eyes  —  "a  bad  night,  apparently. 
That 's  all  there  is  about  it." 

"  Oh,  no,  that  is  n't  all !  It  is  n't  like  the  other 
quarrels  we  Ve  had.  When  I  think  how  I  've  felt 
toward  you  ever  since,  it  scares  me.  There  can't  be 
anything  sacred  in  our  marriage  unless  we  trust  each 
other  in  everything." 

"  Well,  /  have  n't  done  any  of  the  mistrusting,"  said 
Bartley,  with  humorous  lightness.  "  But  is  n't  sacred 
rather  a  strong  word  to  use  in  regard  to  our  marriage, 
anyway  ? " 

"  Why  —  why  —  what  do  you  mean,  Bartley  ?  We 
were  married  by  a  minister." 

"  Well,  yes,  by  what  was  left  of  one,"  said  Bartley. 
"  He  could  n't  seem  to  shake  himself  together  suffi- 
ciently to  ask  for  the  proof  that  we  had  declared  our 
intention  to  get  married." 

Marcia  looked  mystified.  "Don't  you  remember 
his  saying  there  was  something  else,  and  iny  suggest- 
ing to  him  that  it  was  the  fee  ? " 

Marcia  turned  white.  "  Father  said  the  certificate 
was  all  right  —  " 

"  Oh,  he  asked  to  see  it,  did  he  ?  He  is  a  prudent 
old  gentleman.  Well,  it  is  all  right." 

"  And  what  difference  did  it  make  about  our  not 
proving  that  we  had  declared  our  intention  ? "  asked 
Marcia,  as  if  only  partly  reassured. 


364  A   MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"No  difference  to  us;  and  only  a  difference  oi 
sixty  dollars  fine  to  him,  if  it  was  ever  found  out." 

"  And  you  let  the  poor  old  man  run  that  risk  ? " 

"  Well,  you  see,  it  could  n't  be  helped.  We  had  n't 
declared  our  intention,  and  the  lady  seemed  very 
anxious  to  be  married.  You  need  n't  be  troubled. 
We  are  married,  right  and  tight  enough ;  but  I  don't 
know  that  there  's  anything  sacred  about  it." 

"  No,"  Marcia  wailed  out,  "  its  tainted  with  fraud 
from  the  beginning." 

"  If  you  like  to  say  so,"  Bartley  assented,  putting 
his  napkin  into  its  ring. 

Marcia  hid  her  face  in  her  arms  on  the  table ;  the 
baby  left  off  drumming  with  its  spoon,  and  began 
to  cry. 

Witherby  was  reading  the  Sunday  edition  of  the 
Chronicle- Abstract,  when  Bartley  got  down  to  the 
Events  office ;  and  he  cleared  his  throat  with  a  pre- 
monitory cough  as  his  assistant  swung  easily  into 
the  room.  "Good  morning,  Mr.  Hubbard,"  he  said. 
"  There  is  quite  an  interesting  article  in  yesterday's 
Chronicle-Abstract.  Have  you  seen  it  ? " 

"  Yes/'  said  Bartley.     "  What  article  ? " 

"  This  Confessions  of  an  Average  American."  With- 
erby held  out  the  paper,  where  Bartley's  article,  viv- 
idly head-lined  and  sub-headed,  filled  half  a  page. 
"  What  is  the  reason  we  cannot  have  something  of 
this  kind  ? " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  Bartley  began. 

"  Have  you  any  idea  who  wrote  this  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  wrote  it." 

Witherby  had  the  task  before  him  of  transmut- 
ing an  expression  of  rather  low  cunning  into  one  of 
wounded  confidence,  mingled  with  high-minded  sur* 
prise.  "  I  thought  it  had  your  ear-marks,  Mr.  Hub- 
baid :  but  I  preferred  not  to  believe  it  till  I  heard 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  365 

the  fact  from  your  own  lips.  I  supposed  that  our 
contract  covered  such  contributions  as  this." 

"I  wrote  it  out  of  time,  and  on  Sunday  night 
You  pay  me  by  the  week,  and  all  that  I  do  through- 
out the  week  belongs  to  you.  The  next  day  after 
that  Sunday  I  did  a  full  day's  work  on  the  Events. 
I  don't  see  what  you  have  to  complain  of.  You  told 
me  when  I  began  that  you  would  not  expect  more 
ihan  a  certain  amount  of  work  from  me.  Have  I 
ever  done  less  ?  " 

"No,  but  —  " 

"  Have  n't  I  always  done  more  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  have  never  complained  of  the  amount  of 
work.  But  upon  this  theory  of  yours,  what  you  did 
in  your  summer  vacation  would  not  belong  to  the 
Events,  or  what  you  did  on  legal  holidays." 

"  I  never  have  any  summer  vacation  or  holidays, 
legal  or  illegal.  Even  when  I  was  down  at  Equity 
last  summer  I  sent  you  something  for  the  paper 
every  day." 

This  was  true,  and  Witherby  could  not  gainsay  it. 
"  Very  well,  sir.  If  this  is  to  be  your  interpretation 
of  our  understanding  for  the  future,  I  shall  wish  to 
revise  our  contract,"  he  said  pompously. 

"  You  can  tear  it  up  if  you  like,"  returned  Bartley. 
"I  dare  say  Kicker  would  jump  at  a  little  study  of 
the  true  inwardness  of  counting-room  journalism. 
Unless  you  insist  upon  having  it  for  the  Events." 
Bartley  gave  a  chuckle  of  enjoyment  as  he  sat  down 
at  his  desk ;  Witherby  rose  and  stalked  away. 

He  returned  in  half  an  hour  and  said,  with  an  air 
of  frank  concession,  touched  with  personal  grief: 
"Mr.  Hubbard,  I  can  see  how,  from  your  point  of 
view,  you  were  perfectly  justifiable  in  selling  your 
article  to  the  Chronicle- Abstract.  My  point  of  view 
is  different,  but  I  shall  not  insist  upon  it ;  and  I  wish 
to  withdraw  —  and  —  and  apologize  for  —  anj  hasty 
expressions  I  may  have  used." 


366  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

•'  All  right,"  said  Bartley,  with  a  wicked  grin  He 
had  triumphed;  but  his  triumph  was  one  to  leave 
some  men  with  an  uneasy  feeling,  and  there  was  not 
altogether  a  pleasant  taste  in  Bartley's  mouth.  After 
that  his  position  in  the  Events  office  was  whatever 
he  chose  to  make  it,  but  he  did  not  abuse  his  ascen- 
dency, and  he  even  made  a  point  of  increased  def- 
erence towards  Witherby.  Many  courtesies  passed 
between  them ;  each  took  some  trouble  to  show  the 
other  that-  he  had  no  ill  feeling. 

Three  or  four  weeks  later  Bartley  received  a  letter 
with  an  Illinois  postmark  which  gave  him  a  disagree- 
able sensation,  at  first,  for  he  knew  it  must  be  from 
Kinney.  But  the  letter  was  so  amusingly  character- 
istic, so  helplessly  ill-spelled  and  ill-constructed,  that 
he  could  not  help  laughing.  Kinney  gave  an  account 
of  his  travels  to  the  mining  town,  and  of  his  present 
situation  and  future  prospects ;  he  was  full  of  affec- 
tionate messages  and  inquiries  fcxc  Bartley's  family, 
and  he  said  he  should  never  forget  that  Sunday  he 
had  passed  with  them.  In  a  postscript  be  added: 
"  They  copied  that  String  of  lies  into  our  paper,  here, 
out  of  the  Chron.-Ab.  It  was  pretty  well  done,  but 
if  your  friend  Mr.  Eicker  done  it,  I  'me  not  goen  to 
Insult  him  soon  again  by  calling  him  a  gentleman." 

This  laconic  reference  to  the  matter  in  a  postscript 
was  delicious  to  Bartley ;  he  seemed  to  hear  Kinney 
saying  the  words,  and  imagined  his  air  of  ineffective 
sarcasm.  He  carried  the  letter  about  with  him,  and 
the  first  time  he  saw  Kicker  he  showed  it  to  him. 
Eicker  read  it  without  appearing  greatly  diverted; 
when  he  came  to  the  postscript  he  flushed,  and  de- 
manded, "  What  have  you  done  about  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  have  n't  done  anything.  It  was  n't  neces- 
sary. You  see,  now,  what  Kinney  could  have  done 
with  his  facts  if  we  had  left  them  to  him.  Ife  would 
have  been  a  wicked  waste  of  material.  I  thought 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE  36V 

the  sight  of  some  of  his  literature  would  heip  you 
wash  up  your  uncleanly  scruples  on  that  point." 

"How  long  have  you  had  this  letter?"  pursued 
Ricker. 

"  /  don't  know.     A  week  or  ten  days." 

Ricker  folded  it  up  and  returned  it  to  him.  "  Mr. 
Hubbard,"  he  said,  "  the  next  time  we  meet,  will  you 
do  me  the  favor  to  cut  my  acquaintance  ? " 

Bartley  stared  at  him ;  he  thought  he  must  be 
joking.  "  Why,  Ricker,  what 's  the  matter  ?  I  did  n't 
suppose  you  'd  care  anything  about  old  Kinney.  I 
thought  it  would  amuse  you.  Why,  confound  it ! 
I  'd  just  as  soon  write  out  and  tell  him  that  I  did  the 
thing."  He  began  to  be  angry.  "  But  I  can  cut  your 
acquaintance  fast  enough,  or  any  man's,  if  you  're 
really  on  your  ear ! " 

"  I  'm  on  my  ear,"  said  Ricker.  He  left  Bartley 
standing  where  they  had  met. 

It  was  peculiarly  unfortunate,  for  Bartley  had  occa- 
sion within  that  week  to  ask  Ricker's  advice,  and  he 
was  debarred  from  doing  so  by  this  absurd  displeas- 
ure. Since  their  recent  perfect  understanding,  With- 
erby  had  slighted  no  opportunity  to  cement  their 
friendship,  and  to  attach  Bartley  more  and  more 
firmly  to  the  Events.  He  now  offered  him  some  of 
the  Events  stock  on  extremely  advantageous  terms, 
with  the  avowed  purpose  of  attaching  him  to  the 
paper.  There  seemed  nothing  covert  in  this,  and 
Bartley  had  never  heard  any  doubts  of  the  pros- 
perity of  the  Events,  but  he  would  have  especially 
liked  to  have  Ricker's  mind  upon  this  offer  of  stock. 
Witherby  had  urged  him  not  to  pay  for  the  whole 
outright,  but  to  accept  a  somewhat  lower  salary,  and 
trust  to  his  dividends  to  make  up  the  difference. 
The  shares  had  paid  fifteen  per  cent  the  year  before, 
and  Bartley  could  judge  for  himself  of  the  present 
chances  from  that  showing.  Witherby  advised  him 


368  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

to  borrow  only  fifteen  hundred  dollars  on  the  three 
thousand  of  stock  which  he  offered  him,  and  to  pay 
up  the  balance  in  three  years  by  dropping  five  hun- 
dred a  year  from  his  salary.  It  was  certainly  a  flat- 
tering proposal ;  and  under  his  breath,  where  Bartley 
still  did  most  of  his  blaspheming,  he  cursed  Eicker 
for  an  old  fool ;  and  resolved  to  close  with  Witherby 
on  his  own  responsibility.  After  he  had  done  so  he 
told  Marcia  of  the  step  he  had  taken. 

Since  their  last  quarrel  there  had  been  an  aliena- 
tion in  her  behavior  toward  him,  different  from  any 
former  resentment.  She  was  submissive  and  quies- 
cent ;  she  looked  carefully  after  his  comfort,  and  was 
perfect  in  her  housekeeping  ;  but  she  held  aloof  from 
him  somehow,  and  left  him  to  a  solitude  in  her  pres- 
ence in  which  he  fancied,  if  he  did  not  divine,  her 
contempt.  But  in  this  matter  of  common  interest, 
something  of  their  community  of  feeling  revived; 
they  met  on  a  lower  level,  but  they  met,  for  the  mo- 
ment, and  Marcia  joined  eagerly  in  the  discussion  of 
ways  and  means. 

The  notion  of  dropping  five  hundred  from  his  sal- 
ary delighted  her,  because  they  must  now  cut  down 
their  expenses  as  much ;  and  she  had  long  grieved 
over  their  expenses  without  being  able  to  make  Bart- 
ley  agree  to  their  reduction.  She  went  upstairs  at 
once  and  gave  the  little  nurse-maid  a  week's  warn- 
ing; she  told  the  maid  of  all  work  that  she  must 
take  three  dollars  a  week  hereafter  instead  of  four, 
or  else  find  another  place;  she  mentally  forewent 
new  spring  dresses  for  herself  and  the  baby,  and 
arranged  to  do  herself  all  of  the  wash  she  had  been 
putting  out  ;  she  put  a  note  in  the  mouth  of  the  can 
at  the  back  door,  telling  the  milkman  to  leave  only 
two  quarts  in  future  ;  and  she  came  radiantly  back 
to  tell  Bartley  that  she  had  saved  half  of  the  lost 
five  hundred  a  year  already.  But  her  countenance 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  369 

fell.  "  Why,  where  are  you  to  get  the  other  fifteen 
hundred  dollars,  Bartley  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  Ve  thought  of  that,"  said  Bartley,  laughing 
at  her  swift  alternations  of  triumph  and  despair. 
"  You  trust  to  me  for  that." 

"  You  're  not  —  not  going  to  ask  father  for  it  ? "  she 
faltered. 

"  Not  very  much,"  said  Bartley,  as  he  took  his  hat 
to  go  out. 

He  meant  to  make  a  raise  out  of  Ben  Halleck,  as 
he  phrased  it  to  himself.  He  knew  that  Halleck  had 
plenty  of  money ;  he  could  make  the  stock  itself 
over  to  him  as  security ;  he  did  not  see  why  Halleck 
should  hesitate.  But  when  he  entered  Halleck's 
room,  having  asked  Cyrus  to  show  him  directly  there, 
Halleck  gave  a  start  which  seemed  ominous  to  Bart- 
ley. He  had  scarcely  the  heart  to  open  his  business, 
and  Halleck  listened  with  changing  color,  and  some- 
thing only  too  like  the  embarrassment  of  a  man  who 
intends  a  refusal.  He  would  not  look  Bartley  in  the 
face,  and  when  Bartley  had  made  an  end  he  sat  for 
a  time  without  speaking.  At  last  he  said  with  a 
quick  sigh,  as  if  at  the  close  of  an  internal  conflict, 
"  I  will  lend  you  the  money  ! " 

Bartley's  heart  gave  a  bound,  and  he  broke  out 
into  an  immense  laugh  of  relief,  and  clapped  Halleck 
on  the  shoulder.  "  You  looked  deucedly  as  if  you 
would  n't,  old  man !  By  George,  you  had  on  such  a 
dismal,  hang-dog  expression  that  I  did  n't  know  but 
you  'd  come  to  borrow  money  of  me,  and  I  'd  made 
up  my  mind  not  to  let  you  have  it !  But  I  'm  ever- 
lastingly obliged  to  you,  Halleck,  and  I  promise  you 
that  you  won't  regret  it." 

"  I  shall  have  to  speak  to  my  father  about  this," 
said  Halleck,  responding  coldly  to  Bartley's  robust 
pressure  of  his  hand. 

"  Of  course,  —  of  course." 

24 


370  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  How  soon  shall  yon  want  the  money  ? " 

"Well,  the  sooner  the  better,  now.  Bring  the 
check  round  —  can't  you  ?  —  to-morrow  night, —  and 
take  dinner  with  us,  you  and  Olive ;  and  we  11  cele- 
brate a  little.  I  know  it  will  please  Marcia  when 
she  finds  out  who  my  hard-hearted  creditor  is  ! " 

"  Well,"  assented  Halleck  with  a  smile  so  ghastly 
that  Bartley  noticed  it  even  in  his  joy. 

"  Curse  me,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  if  ever  I  saw  a 
man  so  ashamed  of  doing  a  good  action  1" 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  371 


XXX. 

THE  Presidential  canvas  of  the  summer  which  fol- 
lowed upon  these  events  in  Hartley's  career  was  not 
very  active.  Sometimes,  in  fact,  it  languished  so 
much  that  people  almost  forgot  it,  and  a  good  field 
was  afforded  the  Events  for  the  practice  of  inde- 
pendent journalism.  To  hold  a  course  of  strict  im- 
partiality, and  yet  come  out  on  the  winning  side 
was  a  theory  of  independent  journalism  which  Bart- 
ley  illustrated  with  cynical  enjoyment.  He  devel- 
oped into  something  rather  artistic  the  gift  which  he 
had  always  shown  in  his  newspaper  work  for  ironical 
persiflage.  Witherby  was  not  a  man  to  feel  this  bur- 
lesque himself;  but  when  it  was  pointed  out  to  him 
by  others,  he  came  to  Bartley  in  some  alarm  from  its 
effect  upon  the  fortunes  of  the  paper.  "We  can't 
afford,  Mr.  Hubbard,"  he  said,  with  virtuous  trepida- 
tion, "  we  can't  afford  to  make  fun  of  our  friends  !  " 

Bartley  laughed  at  Witherby's  anxiety.  "  They  're 
no  more  our  friends  than  the  other  fellows  are.  We 
are  independent  journalists ;  and  this  way  of  treat- 
ing the  thing  leaves  us  perfectly  free  hereafter  to 
claim,  just  as  we  choose,  that  we  were  in  fun  or  in 
earnest  on  any  particular  question  if  we  're  ever  at- 
tacked. See  ? " 

"  1  see,"  said  Witherby,  with  not  wholly  subdued 
misgiving.  But  after  due  time  for  conviction  no 
man  enjoyed  Bartley 's  irony  more  than  Witherby 
when  once  he  had  mastered  an  instance  of  it.  Some- 
times it  happened  that  Bartley  found  him  chuckling 


572  A  MODERN"  INSTANCE. 

over  a  perfectly  serious  paragraph,  but  he  did  nol 
mind  that ;  he  enjoyed  Witherby's  mistake  even 
more  than  his  appreciation. 

In  these  days  Bartley  was  in  almost  uninterrupted 
good  humor,  as  he  had  always  expected  to  be  when  he 
became  fairly  prosperous.  He  was  at  no  time  an 
unamiable  fellow,  as  he  saw  it;  he  had  his  sulks, 
he  had  his  moments  of  anger ;  but  generally  he  felt 
good,  and  he  had  always  believed,  and  he  had  prom- 
ised Marcia,  that  when  he  got  squarely  on  his  legs 
he  should  feel  good  perpetually.  This  sensation  lie 
now  agreeably  realized ;  and  he  was  also  now  in  that 
position  in  which  he  had  proposed  to  himself  some 
little  moral  reforms.  He  was  not  much  in  the  habit  of 
taking  stock ;  but  no  man  wholly  escapes  the  contin- 
gencies in  which  he  is  confronted  with  himself,  and 
sees  certain  habits,  traits,  tendencies,  which  he  would 
like  to  change  for  the  sake  of  his  peace  of  mind 
hereafter.  To  some  souls  these  contingencies  are  full 
of  anguish,  of  remorse  for  the  past,  of  despair;  but 
Bartley  had  never  yet  seen  the  time  when  he  did  not 
feel  himself  perfectly  able  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf 
and  blot  the  old  one.  There  were  not  many  things  in 
his  life  which  he  really  cared  to  have  very  different ; 
but  there  were  two  or  three  shady  little  corners  which 
he  always  intended  to  clean  up.  He  had  meant  some 
time  or  other  to  have  a  religious  belief  of  some  sort, 
he  did  not  much  care  what ;  since  Marcia  had  taken 
to  the  Hallecks'  church,  he  did  not  see  why  he  should 
not  go  with  her,  though  he  had  never  yet  done  so. 
He  was  not  quite  sure  whether  he  was  always  as 
candid  with  her  as  he  might  be,  or  as  kind ;  though 
he  maintained  against  this  question  that  in  all  their 
quarrels  it  was  six  of  one  and  half  a  dozen  of  the 
other.  He  had  never  been  tipsy  but  once  in  his  life, 
and  he  considered  that  he  had  repented  and  atoned 
for  thai  enough,  especially  as  nothing  had  ever  come 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  373 

of  it ;  but  sometimes  he  thought  he  might  be  ovei 
doing  the  beer;  yes,  he  thought  he  must  cut  dowu 
on  the  tivoli;  he  was  getting  ridiculously  fat.  If 
ever  he  met  Kinney  again  he  should  tell  him  that  ic 
was  he  and  not  Ricker  who  had  appropriated  his  facts 
and  he  intended  to  make  it  up  with  Ricker  somehow 
He  had  not  found  just  the  opportunity  yet;  but  ii 
the  mean  time  he  did  not  mind  telling  the  real  cause 
of  their  alienation  to  good  fellows  who  could  enjoy  a 
joke.  He  had  his  following,  though  so  many  of  his 
brother  journalists  had  cooled  toward  him,  and  those 
of  his  following  considered  him  as  smart  as  chain- 
lightning  and  bound  to  rise.  These  young  men  and 
not  very  wise  elders  roared  over  Hartley's  frank  decla- 
ration of  the  situation  between  himself  and  Ricker, 
and  they  contended  that,  if  Ricker  had  taken  the  ar- 
ticle for  the  Chronicle-Abstract,  he  ought  to  take 
the  consequences.  Bartley  told  them  that,  of  course, 
he  should  explain  the  facts  to  Kinney ;  but  that  he 
meant  to  let  Ricker  enjoy  his  virtuous  indignation 
awhile.  Once,  after  a  confidence  of  this  kind  at  the 
club,  where  Ricker  had  refused  to  speak  to  him,  he 
came  away  with  a  curious  sense  of  moral  decay.  It 
did  not  pain  him  a  great  deal,  but  it  certainly  sur- 
prised him  that  now,  with  all  these  prosperous  condi- 
tions, so  favorable  for  cleaning  up,  he  had  so  little 
disposition  to  clean  up.  He  found  himself  quite 
willing  to  let  the  affair  with  Ricker  go,  and  he  sus- 
pected that  he  had  been  needlessly  virtuous  in  hi& 
intentions  concerning  church-going  and  beer.  As  to 
Marcia,  it  appeared  to  him  that  he  could  not  treat  a 
woman  of  her  disposition  otherwise  than  as  he  did. 
At  any  rate,  if  he  had  not  done  everything  he  could 
to  make  her  happy,  she  seemed  to  be  getting  along 
well  enough,  and  was  probably  quite  as  happy  as  she 
deserved  to  be.  They  were  getting  on  very  quietly 
now;  there  had  been  no  violent  outbreak  between 


£74  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

them  since  the  trouble  about  Kinney,  and  then  she 
had  practically  confessed  herself  in  the  wrong,  aa 
Hartley  looked  at  it.  She  had  appeared  contented 
tvith  his  explanation ;  there  was  what  might  be  called 
a  perfect  business  amity  between  them.  If  her  life 
with  him  was  no  longer  an  expression  of  that  intense 
devotion  which  she  used  to  show  him,  it  was  more 
like  what  married  life  generally  comes  to,  and  he  ac- 
cepted her  tractability  and  what  seemed  her  common- 
sense  view  of  their  relations  as  greatly  preierable. 
With  his  growth  in  flesh,  Bartley  liked  peace  more 
and  more. 

Marcia  had  consented  to  go  down  to  Equity  alone, 
that  summer,  for  he  had  convinced  her  that  during  a 
heated  political  contest  it  would  not  do  for  him  to  be 
away  from  the  paper.  He  promised  to  go  down  for 
her  when  she  wished  to  come  home  ;  and  it  was  easily 
arranged  for  her  to  travel  as  far  as  the  Junction  un- 
der Halleck's  escort,  when  he  went  to  join  his  sisters 
in  the  White  Mountains.  Bartley  missed  her  and  the 
baby  at  first.  But  he  soon  began  to  adjust  himself 
with  resignation  to  his  solitude.  They  had  deter- 
mined to  keep  their  maid  over  this  summer,  for  they 
had  so  much  trouble  in  replacing  her  the  last  time 
after  their  return ;  and  Bartley  said  he  should  live 
very  economically.  It  was  quiet,  and  the  woman 
kept  the  house  cool  and  clean ;  she  was  a  good  cook, 
and  when  Bartley  brought  a  man  home  to  dinner  she 
took  an  interest  in  serving  it  well.  Bartley  let  her 
order  the  things  from  the  grocer  and  butcher,  for  she 
knew  what  they  were  used  to  getting,  and  he  had 
heard  so  much  talk  from  Marcia  about  bills  since  he 
bought  that  Events  stock  that  he  was  sick  of  the 
prices  of  things.  There  was  no  extravagance,  and 
yet  he  seemed  to  live  very  much  better  after  Marcia 
went.  There  is  no  doubt  but  he  lived  very  much 
more  at  his  ease.  One  little  restriction  after  another 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  375 

fell  away  from  him  ;  he  went  and  came  with  absolute 
freedom,  not  only  without  having  to  account  for  his 
movements,  but  without  having  a  pang  for  not  doing 
so.  He  had  the  sensation  of  stretching  himself  after 
a  cramping  posture  ;  and  he  wrote  Marcia  the  cheer- 
fulest  letters,  charging  her  not  to  cut  short  her  visit 
from  anxiety  on  his  account.  He  said  that  he  was 
working  hard,  but  hard  work  evidently  agreed  with 
him,  for  he  was  never  better  in  his  life.  In  this  high 
content  he  maintained  a  feeling  of  loyalty  by  going 
to  the  Hallecks,  where  Mrs.  Halleck  often  had  him 
to  tea  in  pity  of  his  loneliness.  They  were  dull 
company,  certainly ;  but  Marcia  liked  them,  and  the 
cooking  was  always  good.  Other  evenings  he  went 
to  the  theatres,  where  there  were  amusing  variety 
bills ;  and  sometimes  he  passed  the  night  at  Nantas- 
ket,  or  took  a  run  for  a  day  to  Newport ;  he  always 
reported  these  excursions  to  Marcia,  with  expressions 
of  regret  that  Equity  was  too  far  away  to  run  down 
to  for  a  day. 

Marcia's  letters  were  longer  arid  more  regular  than 
his ;  but  he  could  have  forgiven  some  want  of  con- 
stancy for  the  sake  of  a  less  searching  anxiety  on  her 
part.  She  was  anxious  not  only  for  his  welfare, 
which  was  natural  and  proper,  but  she  was  anxious 
about  the  housekeeping  and  the  expenses,  things 
Bartley  could  not  afford  to  let  trouble  him,  though 
he  did  what  he  could  in  a  general  way  to  quiet  her 
mind.  She  wrote  fully  of  the  visit  which  Olive 
Halleck  had  paid  her,  but  said  that  they  had  not 
gone  about  much,  for  Ben  Halleck  had  only  been  able 
to  come  for  a  day.  She  was  very  well,  and  so  was 
Flavia. 

Bartley  realized  Flavia's  existence  with  an  effort, 
and  for  the  rest  this  letter  bored  him.  What  could 
he  care  about  Olive  Halleck's  coming,  or  Ben  Hal- 
leek's  staying  away  ?  All  that  he  asked  of  Ben 


376  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

Halleck  was  a  little  extension  of  time  when  his  in* 
terest  fell  due.  The  whole  thing  was  disagreeable; 
and  he  resented  what  he  considered  Marcia's  en- 
deavor to  clap  the  domestic  harness  on  him  again. 
His  thoughts  wandered  to  conditions,  to  contingen- 
cies, of  which  a  man  does  not  permit  himself  even  to 
think  without  a  degree  of  moral  disintegration.  In 
these  ?ll-advised  reveries  he  mused  upon  his  life  as  it 
might  have  been  if  he  had  never  met  her,  or  if  they 
had  never  met  after  her  dismissal  of  him.  As  he  re- 
called the  facts,  he  was  at  that  time  in  an  angry  and 
embittered  mood,  but  he  was  in  a  mood  of  entire  ac- 
quiescence; and  the  reconciliation  had  been  of  her 
own  seeking.  He  could  not  blame  her  for  it;  she 
was  very  much  in  love  with  him,  and  he  had  been 
fond  of  her.  In  fact,  he  was  still  very  fond  of  her ; 
when  he  thought  of  little  ways  of  hers,  it  filled  him 
with  tenderness.  He  did  justice  to  her  fine  qualities, 
too :  her  generosity,  her  truthfulness,  her  entire  loy- 
alty to  his  best  interests  ;  he  smiled  to  realize  that  he 
himself  preferred  his  second-best  interests,  and  in  her 
absence  he  remembered  that  her  virtues  were  tedious, 
and  even  painful  at  times.  He  had  his  doubts  whether 
there  was  sufficient  compensation  in  them.  He  some- 
times questioned  whether  he  had  not  made  a  great 
mistake  to  get  married ;  he  expected  now  to  stick  it 
through ;  but  this  doubt  occurred  to  him.  A  moment 
came  in  which  he  asked  himself,  What  if  he  had 
never  come  back  to  Marcia  that  night  when  she 
locked  him  out  of  her  room  ?  Might  it  not  have 
been  better  for  both  of  them  ?  She  would  soon  have 
reconciled  herself  to  the  irreparable ;  he  even  thought 
of  her  happy  in  a  second  marriage  ;  and  the  thought 
did  not  enrage  him ;  he  generously  wished  Marcia 
well  He  wished  —  he  hardly  knew  what  he  wished. 
He  wished  nothing  at  all  but  to  have  his  wife  and 
child  back  again  as  soon  as  possible  ;  and  he  put  aside 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  37T 

with  a  laugh  the  fancies  which  really  found  no  such 
distinct  formulation  as  I  have  given  them;  which 
were  mere  vague  impulses,  arrested  mental  tenden- 
cies, scraps  of  undirected  revery.  Their  recurrence 
had  nothing  to  do  with  what  he  felt  to  be  his  sane 
and  waking  state.  But  they  recurred,  and  he  even 
amused  himself  in  turning  them  over. 


378  A  MODERN  INSTANCE* 


XXXL 

ONE  morning  in  September,  not  long  before  Marcia 
returned,  Bartley  found  Witherby  at  the  office  wait- 
ing for  him.  Witherby  wore  a  pensive  face,  which 
had  the  effect  of  being  studied.  "  Good  morning, 
Mr.  Hubbard,"  he  said,  and  when  Bartley  answered, 
"  Good  morning,"  cheerfully  ignoring  his  mood,  he 
added,  "  What  is  this  I  hear,  Mr.  Hubbard,  about 
a  personal  misunderstanding  between  you  and  Mr. 
Kicker?" 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Bartley ;  "  but  I 
suppose  that  if  you  have  heard  anything  you  know." 

"  I  have  heard,"  proceeded  Witherby,  a  little  dashed 
by  Bartley's  coolness,  "  that  Mr.  Eicker  accuses  you 
of  having  used  material  in  that  article  you  sold  him 
which  had  been  intrusted  to  you  under  the  seal  of 
confidence,  and  that  you  had  left  it  to  be  inferred  by 
the  party  concerned  that  Mr.  Kicker  had  written  the 
article  himself." 

"  All  right,"  said  Bartley. 

"  But,  Mr.  Hubbard,"  said  Witherby,  struggling  to 
rise  into  virtuous  supremacy,  "what  am  I  to  think 
of  such  a  report?" 

"  I  can't  say  ;  unless  you  should  think  that  it  was  n't 
your  affair.  That  would  be  the  easiest  thing." 

"  But  I  can't  think  that,  Mr.  Hubbard !  Such  a 
report  reflects  through  you  upon  the  Events ;  it  re- 
flects upon  me  /"  Bartley  laughed.  "I  can't  approve 
of  such  a  thing.  If  you  admit  the  report,  it  appears 
to  me  that  you  have  —  a  —  done  a — a — wrong  action, 
Mr.  Hubbard." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  379 

Hartley  turned  upon  him  with  a  curious  look ;  at 
the  same  time  he  felt  a  pang,  and  there  was  a  touch 
of  real  anguish  in  the  sarcasm  of  his  demand,  "  Have 
I  fallen  so  low  as  to  be  rebuked  by  you  ?  " 

"I  —  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  such  an  ex- 
pression as  that,  Mr.  Hubbard,"  said  Witherby.  "  I 
don't  know  what  I  've  done  to  forfeit  your  esteem,  — 
to  justify  you  in  using  such  language  to  me." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  really  do,"  said  Bartley. 
"  Go  on." 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  Mr.  Hubbard,  except 
—  except  to  add  that  this  has  given  me  a  great  blow,  — 
a  great  blow.  I  had  begun  to  have  my  doubts  before 
as  to  whether  we  were  quite  adapted  to  each  other, 
and  this  has  —  increased  them.  I  pass  no  judgment 
upon  what  you  have  done,  but  I  will  say  that  it 
has  made  me  anxious  and  —  a  —  unrestful.  It  has 
made  me  ask  myself  whether  upon  the  whole  we 
should  not  be  happier  apart.  I  don't  say  that  we 
should  ;  but  I  only  feel  that  nine  out  of  ten  business 
men  would  consider  you,  in  the  position  you  occupy 
on  the  Events,  —  a  —  a  —  dangerous  person." 

Bartley  got  up  from  his  desk,  and  walked  toward 
Witherby,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets ;  he  halted  a 
few  paces  from  him,  and  looked  down  on  him  with  a 
sinister  smile.  "  I  don't  think  they  'd  consider  you 
a  dangerous  person  in  any  position." 

"  May  be  not,  may  be  not,"  said  Witherby,  striving 
to  be  easy  and  dignified.  In  the  effort  he  took  up  an 
open  paper  from  the  desk  before  him,  and,  lifting  it 
between  Bartley  and  himself,  feigned  to  be  reading  it. 

Bartley  struck  it  out  of  his  trembling  hands.  "  You 
impudent  old  scoundrel !  Do  you  pretend  to  be  read- 
ing when  I  speak  to  you  ?  For  half  a  cent  —  " 

Witherby,  slipping  and  sliding  in  his  swivel  chair, 
contrived  to  get  to  his  feet.     "  No  violence,  Mr. 
no  violence  liere  I " 


380  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"  Violence  ! "  laughed  Bartley.  "  I  should  have  to 
touch  you !  Come  !  Don't  be  afraid !  But  don't  you 
put  on  airs  of  any  sort !  I  understand  your  gama 
You  want,  for  some  reason,  to  get  rid  of  me,  and  you 
have  seized  the  opportunity  with  a  sharpness  that 
does  credit  to  your  cunning.  I  don't  condescend  to 
deny  this  report,"  —  speaking  in  this  lofty  strain, 
Bartley  had  a  momentary  sensation  of  its  being  a 
despicable  slander,  —  "but  I  see  that  as  far  as  you 
are  concerned  it  answers  all  the  purposes  of  truth. 
You  think  that  with  the  chance  of  having  this  thing 
exploited  against  me  I  won't  expose  your  nefarious 
practices,  and  you  can  get  rid  of  me  more  safely  no\* 
than  ever  you  could  again.  Well,  you  're  right.  1 
dare  say  you  heard  of  this  report  a  good  while  ago,  and 
you  Ve  waited  till  you  could  fill  my  place  without  in- 
convenience to  yourself.  So  I  can  go  at  once.  Draw 
your  check  for  all  you  owe  me,  and  pay  me  back  the 
money  I  put  into  your  stock,  and  I  '11  clear  out  at 
once."  He  went  about  putting  together  a  few  per- 
sonal effects  on  his  desk. 

"I  must  protest  against  any  allusion  to  nefarious 
practices,  Mr.  Hubbard,"  said  Witherby,  "  and  I  w'sh 
you  to  understand  that  I  part  from  you  without  the 
slightest  ill-feeling.  I  shall  always  have  a  high  re- 
gard for  your  ability,  and  —  and  —  your  social  quali- 
ties." While  he  made  these  expressions  he  hastened 
to  write  two  checks. 

Bartley,  who  had  paid  no  attention  to  what  Witherby 
was  saying,  came  up  and  took  the  checks.  "  This  is 
all  right,"  he  said  of  one.  But  looking  at  the  other, 
he  added,  "  Fifteen  hundred  dollars  ?  Where  is  the 
dividend?" 

"  That  is  not  due  till  the  end  of  the  month,"  sai£ 
Witherby.  "  If  you  withdraw  your  money  now,  you 
lose  it."  ' 

Bartley  looked  at  the  face  to  which  Witherby  dtf 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  38i 

his  best  to  give  a  high  judicial  expression.  "  You 
old  thief ! "  he  said  good-humoredly,  almost  affection- 
ately. "  I  have  a  mind  to  tweak  your  nose  ! "  But 
he  went  out  of  the  room  without  saying  or  doing 
anything  more.  He  wondered  a  little  at  his  own 
amiability  ;  but  with  the  decay  of  whatever  was  right- 
principled  in  him,  he  was  aware  of  growing  more  and 
more  incapable  of  indignation.  Now,  his  flash  of  rage 
over,  he  was  not  at  all  discontented.  With  these 
checks  in  his  pocket,  with  his  youth,  his  health,  and 
his  practised  hand,  he  could  have  faced  the  world,  with 
a  light  heart,  if  he  had  not  also  had  to  face  his  wife. 
But  when  he  thought  of  the  inconvenience  of  explain- 
ing to  her,  of  pacifying  her  anxiety,  of  clearing  up 
her  doubts  on  a  thousand  points,  and  of  getting  her 
simply  to  eat  or  sleep  till  he  found  something  else  to 
do,  it  dismayed  him.  "  Good  Lord  !  "  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  I  wish  I  was  dead  —  or  some  one."  That  con- 
clusion made  him  smile  again. 

He  decided  not  to  write  to  Marcia  of  the  change  in 
his  affairs,  but  to  take  the  chance  of  rinding  something 
better  before  she  returned.  There  was  very  little 
time  for  him  to  turn  round,  and  he  was  still  without 
a  place  or  any  prospect  when  she  came  home.  It 
had  sufficed  with  his  acquaintance  when  he  said  that 
he  had  left  the  Events  because  he  could  not  get  on 
with  Witherby;  but  he  was  very  much  astonished 
when  it  seemed  to  suffice  with  her. 

"  Oh,  well,"  she  said,  "  I  am  glad  of  it.  You  will 
do  better  by  yourself ;  and  I  know  you  can  earn  just 
as  much  by  writing  on  the  different  papers." 

Bartley  knew  better  than  this,  but  he  said,  "  Yes,  T 
shall  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  take  another  engagement 
just  yet.  But,  Marsh,"  he  added,  "  I  was  afraid  you 
would  blame  me,  —  think  I  had  been  reckless,  or  at 
fault  —  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  after  a  little  pause,  "  I  shall 


382  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

not  do  that  any  more.  I  have  been  thinking  aD 
these  things  over,  while  I  was  away  from  you,  and 
I  'm  going  to  do  differently,  after  this.  I  shall  believe 
that  you  Ve  acted  for  the  best,  —  that  you  've  not 
meant  to  do  wrong  in  anything, —  and  I  shall  never 
question  you  or  doubt  you  any  more." 

"Isn't  that  giving  me  rather  too  much  rope?" 
asked  Bartley,  with  lightness  that  masked  a  vague 
alarm  lest  the  old  times  of  exaction  should  be  com- 
ing back  with  the  old  times  of  devotion. 

"  No ;  I  see  where  my  mistake  has  always  been. 
I  Ve  always  asked  too  much,  and  expected  too  much, 
even  when  I  did  n't  ask  it.  Now,  I  shall  be  satisfied 
with  what  you  don't  do,  as  well  as  what  you  do." 

"  I  shall  try  to  live  up  to  my  privileges,"  said  Bart- 
ley,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  gave  her  a  kiss,  and 
then  he  unclasped  Kinney's  nugget  from  his  watch- 
chain,  and  fastened  it  on  the  baby's  necklace,  which 
lay  in  a  box  Marcia  had  just  taken  from  her  trunk. 
She  did  not  speak ;  but  Bartley  felt  better  to  have  the 
thing  off  him ;  Marcia's  gentleness,  the  tinge  of  sad- 
ness in  her  tone,  made  him  long  to  confess  himself 
wrong  in  the  whole  matter,  and  justly  punished  by 
Kicker's  contempt  and  Witherby's  dismissal.  But  he 
did  not  believe  that  he  could  trust  her  to  forgive  him, 
and  he  felt  himself  unable  to  go  through  all  that  with* 
out  the  certainty  of  her  forgiveness. 

As  she  took  the  things  out  of  her  trunk,  and  laid 
them  away  in  this  drawer  and  that,  she  spoke  of  events 
in  the  village,  and  told  who  was  dead,  who  was  mar- 
ried, and  who  had  gone  away.  "  I  stayed  longer  than 
T  expected,  a  little,  because  father  seemed  to  want  me 
to.  I  don't  think  mother  's  so  well  as  she  used  to  be. 
I  —  I  'm  afraid  she  seems  to  be  failing,  somehow." 

Her  voice  dropped  to  a  lower  key,  and  Bartley  said, 
*  I  'm  sorry  to  hear  that.  I  guess  she  is  n't  failing. 
But  of  course  she 's  getting  on,  and  every  year  makes 
«,  difference." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  383 

*  Yes,  that  must  be  it,"  she  answered,  looking  at  a 
bundle  of  collars  she  had  in  her  hand,  as  if  absorbed 
in  the  question  as  to  where  she  should  put  them. 

Before  they  slept  that  night  she  asked,  "  Bartley, 
did  you  hear  about  Hannah  Morrison  ? " 

"  No.     What  about  her  ? " 

"  She 's  gone  —  gone  away.  The  last  time  she  was 
seen  was  in  Portland.  They  don't  know  what's 
become  of  her.  They  say  that  Henry  Bird  is  about 
heart-broken ;  but  everybody  knows  she  never  cared 
for  him.  I  hated  to  write  to  you  about  it." 

Bartley  experienced  so  disagreeable  a  sensation  that 
he  was  silent  for  a  time.  Then  he  gave  a  short,  bitter 
laugh.  "  Well,  that 's  what  it  was  bound  to  come  to, 
sooner  or  later,  I  suppose.  It 's  a  piece  of  good  luck 
for  Bird." 

Bartley  went  about  picking  up  work  from  one 
paper  and  another,  but  not  securing  a  basis  on  any. 
In  that  curious  and  unwholesome  leniency  which  cor- 
rupt natures  manifest,  he  and  Witherby  met  at  their 
next  encounter  on  quite  amicable  terms.  Bartley  re- 
ported some  meetings  for  the  Events,  and  experienced 
no  resentment  when  Witherby  at  the  office  introduced 
him  to  the  gentleman  with  whom  he  had  replaced  him. 
Of  course  Bartley  expected  that  Witherby  would  in- 
sinuate things  to  his  disadvantage,  but  he  did  not 
mind  that.  He  heard  of  something  of  the  sort  being 
done  in  Rickets  presence,  and  of  Kicker's  saying  that 
in  any  question  of  honor  and  veracity  between  With- 
erby and  Hubbard  he  should  decide  for  Hubbard 
Bartley  was  not  very  grateful  for  this  generous  de- 
fence ;  he  thought  that  if  Bicker  had  not  been  such  an 
ass  in  the  first  place  there  would  have  been  no  trouble 
between  them,  and  Witherby  would  not  have  had 
that  handle  against  him. 

He  was  enjoying  himself  very  well,  and  he  felt  en- 
titled to  the  comparative  rest  which  had  not  keen  ot 


384  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

his  seeking.  He  wished  that  Halleck  would 
back,  for  he  would  like  to  ask  his  leave  to  put  thai 
money  into  some  other  enterprise.  His  credit  was 
good,  and  he  had  not  touched  the  money  to  pay  any 
of  his  accumulated  bills ;  he  would  have  considered 
it  dishonorable  to  do  so.  But  it  annoyed  him  to  have 
the  money  lying  idle.  In  his  leisure  he  studied  the 
stock  market,  and  he  believed  that  he  had  several 
points  which  were  infallible.  He  put  a  few  hundreds 
—  two  or  three  —  of  Halleck's  money  into  a  mining 
stock  which  was  so  low  that  it  must  rise.  In  the 
mean  time  he  tried  a  new  kind  of  beer,  —  Norwegian 
beer,  which  he  found  a  little  lighter  even  than  tivoli. 
It  was  more  expensive,  but  it  was  very  light,  and  it 
was  essential  to  Bartley  to  drink  the  lightest  beer  he 
could  find. 

He  stayed  a  good  deal  at  home,  now,  for  he  had 
leisure,  and  it  was  a  much  more  comfortable  place 
since  Marcia  had  ceased  to  question  or  reproach  him. 
She  did  not  interfere  with  some  bachelor  habits  he 
had  formed,  in  her  absence,  of  sleeping  far  into  the 
forenoon ;  he  now  occasionally  did  night- work  on  some 
of  the  morning  papers,  and  the  rest  was  necessary ;  he 
had  his  breakfast  whenever  he  got  up,  as  if  he  had 
been  at  a  hotel.  He  wondered  upon  what  new  theory 
she  was  really  treating  him ;  but  he  had  always  been 
apt  to  accept  what  was  comfortable  in  life  without 
much  question,  and  he  did  not  wonder  long.  He  was 
immensely  good-natured  now.  In  his  frequent  leisure 
he  went  out  to  walk  with  Marcia  and  Flavia,  and 
sometimes  he  took  the  little  girl  alone.  He  even  went 
to  church  with  them  one  Sunday,  and  called  at  the 
Hallecks  as  often  as  Marcia  liked.  The  young  ladies 
had  returned,  but  Ben  Halleck  was  still  away.  It 
made  Bartley  smile  to  hear  his  wife  talking  of  Hal- 
leck with  his  mother  and  sisters,  and  falling  quite  into 
the  family  way  of  regarding  him  as  if  he  were  some* 
toow  a  saint  and  martyr. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  385 

Bartley  was  still  dabbling  in  stocks  with  Hal- 
leck's  money  ;  some  of  it  had  lately  gone  to  pay 
an  assessment  which  had  unexpectedly  occurred  in 
place  of  a  dividend.  He  told  Marcia  that  he  was 
holding  the  money  ready  to  return  to  Halleck  when 
he  came  back,  or  to  put  it  into  some  other  enter- 
prise where  it  would  help  to  secure  Bartley  a  new 
basis.  They  were  now  together  more  than  they  had 
been  since  the  first  days  of  their  married  life  in  Bos- 
ton ;  but  the  perfect  intimacy  of  those  days  was  gone ; 
he  had  his  reserves,  and  she  her  preoccupations,  — 
with  the  house,  with  the  little  girl,  with  her  anxiety 
about  her  mother.  Sometimes  they  sat  a  whole  even- 
ing together,  with  almost  nothing  to  say  to  each  other, 
he  reading  and  she  sewing.  After  an  evening  of  this 
sort,  Bartley  felt  himself  worse  bored  than  if  Marcia 
had  spent  it  in  taking  him  to  task  as  she  used  to  do. 
Once  he  looked  at  her  over  the  top  of  his  paper,  and 
distinctly  experienced  that  he  was  tired  of  the  whole 
thing. 

But  the  political  canvass  was  growing  more  interest- 
ing now.  It  was  almost  the  end  of  October,  and  the 
speech-making  had  become  very  lively.  The  Demo- 
crats were  hopeful  and  the  Eepublicans  resolute,  and 
both  parties  were  active  in  getting  out  their  whole 
strength,  as  the  saying  is,  at  such  times.  This  was 
done  not  only  by  speech-making,  but  by  long  noctur- 
nal processions  of  torch-lights;  by  day,  as  well  as 
by  night,  drums  throbbed  and  horns  brayed,  and  the 
feverish  excitement  spread  its  contagion  through  the 
whole  population.  But  it  did  not  affect  Bartley.  He 
had  cared  nothing  about  the  canvass  from  the  begin- 
ning, having  an  equal  contempt  for  the  bloody  shirt  of 
the  Republicans  and  the  reform  pretensions  of  the 
Democrats.  The  only  thing  that  he  took  an  interest 
in  was  the  betting ;  he  laid  his  wagers  with  so  much 
apparent  science  and  sagacity  that  he  had  a  certain 

25 


386  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

following  of  young  men  who  bet  as  Hubbard  did 
Hubbard,  they  believed,  had  a  long  head ;  he  disdained 
bets  of  hats,  and  of  barrels  of  apples,  and  ordeals  by 
wheelbarrow;  he  would  bet  only  with  people  who 
could  put  up  their  money,  and  his  followers  honored 
him  for  it ;  when  asked  where  he  got  his  money,  be- 
ing out  of  place,  and  no  longer  instant  to  do  work 
that  fell  in  his  way,  they  answered  from  a  ready  faith 
that  he  had  made  a  good  thing  in  mining  stocks. 

In  her  heart,  Marcia  probably  did  not  share  this 
faith.  But  she  faithfully  forbore  to  harass  Bartley 
with  her  doubts,  and  on  those  evenings  when  he 
found  her  such  dull  company  she  was  silent  because  if 
she  spoke  she  must  express  the  trouble  in  her  mind. 
Women  are  more  apt  to  theorize  their  husbands 
than  men  in  their  stupid  self-absorption  ever  realize. 
When  a  man  is  married,  his  wife  almost  ceases  to  be 
exterior  to  his  consciousness  ;  she  afflicts  or  consoles 
him  like  a  condition  of  health  or  sickness ;  she  is 
literally  part  of  him  in  a  spiritual  sense,  even  when 
he  is  rather  indifferent  to  her ;  but  the  most  devoted 
wife  has  always  a  corner  of  her  soul  in  which  she 
thinks  of  her  husband  as  him  ;  in  which  she  philos- 
ophizes him  wholly  aloof  from  herself.  In  such 
an  obscure  fastness  of  her  being,  Marcia  had  medi- 
tated a  great  deal  upon  Bartley  during  her  absence  at 
Equity,  —  meditated  painfully,  and  in  her  sort  prayer- 
fully, upon  him.  She  perceived  that  he  was  not  her 
young  dream  of  him ;  and  since  it  appeared  to  her  that 
she  could  not  forego  that  dream  and  live,  she  could 
but  accuse  herself  of  having  somehow  had  a  perverse 
influence  upon  him.  She  knew  that  she  had  never 
reproached  him  except  for  his  good,  but  she  saw  too 
that  she  had  always  made  him  worse,  and  not  better. 
She  recurred  to  what  he  said  the  first  night  they 
arrived  in  Boston  :  "  I  believe  that,  if  you  have  faith 
in  me,  I  shall  get  along ;  and  when  you  don't,  I  shall 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  387 

go  to  the  bad."  She  could  reason  to  no  other  effect, 
than  that  hereafter,  no  matter  what  happened,  she 
must  show  perfect  faith  in  him  by  perfect  patience. 
It  was  hard,  far  harder  than  she  had  thought.  But 
she  did  forbear ;  she  did  use  patience. 

The  election  day  came  and  went.  Bartley  re- 
mained out  till  the  news  of  Tilden's  success  could 
no  longer  be  doubted,  and  then  came  home  jubilant. 
Marcia  seemed  not  to  understand.  "  I  did  n't  know 
you  cared  so  much  for  Tilden,"  she  said,  quietly. 
"Mr.  Halleck  is  for  Hayes;  and  Ben  Halleck  was 
coming  home  to  vote." 

"  That 's  all  right :  a  vote  in  Massachusetts  makes 
no  difference.  I'm  for  Tilden,  because  I  have  the 
most  money  up  on  him.  The  success  of  that  noble 
old  reformer  is  worth  seven  hundred  dollars  to  me  in 
bets."  Bartley  laughed,  rubbed  her  cheeks  with  his 
chilly  hands,  and  went  down  into  the  cellar  for  some 
beer.  He  could  not  have  slept  without  that,  in  his 
excitement;  but  he  was  out  very  early  the  next 
morning,  and  in  the  raw  damp  of  the  rainy  November 
day  he  received  a  more  penetrating  chill  when  he 
saw  the  bulletins  at  the  newspaper  offices  intimating 
that  a  fair  count  might  give  the  Republicans  enough 
Southern  States  to  elect  Hayes.  This  appeared  to 
Bartley  the  most  impudent  piece  of  political  effront- 
ery in  the  whole  history  of  the  country,  and  among 
those  who  went  about  denouncing  Eepublican  chi- 
canery at  the  Democratic  club-rooms,  no  one  took  a 
loftier  tone  of  moral  indignation  than  he.  The 
thought  that  he  might  lose  so  much  of  Halleck's 
money  through  the  machinations  of  a  parcel  of  car- 
pet-bagging tricksters  filled  him  with  a  virtue  at 
which  he  afterwards  smiled  when  he  found  that  peo- 
ple were  declaring  their  bets  off.  "  I  laid  a  wager  on 
the  popular  result,  not  on  the  decision  of  the  Keturn- 
ing  Boards,"  he  said  in  reclaiming  his  money  from 


388  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

the  referees.  He  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  it 
back,  but  he  had  got  it  when  he  walked  homeward  at 
night,  after  having  been  out  all  day  ;  and  there  now  en- 
sued in  his  soul  a  struggle  as  to  what  he  should  do  with 
this  money.  He  had  it  all  except  the  three  hundred 
he  had  ventured  on  the  mining  stock,  which  would 
eventually  be  worth  everything  he  had  paid  for  it. 
After  his  frightful  escape  from  losing  half  of  it  on 
those  bets,  he  had  an  intense  longing  to  be  rid  of  it, 
to  give  it  back  to  Halleck,  who  never  would  ask  him 
for  it,  and  then  to  go  home  and  tell  Marcia  every- 
thing, and  throw  himself  on  her  mercy.  Better  pov- 
erty, better  disgrace  before  Halleck  and  her,  better 
her  condemnation,  than  this  life  of  temptation  that 
he  had  been  leading.  He  saw  how  hideous  it  was 
in  the  retrospect,  and  he  shuddered ;  his  good  in- 
stincts awoke,  and  put  forth  their  strength,  such  as  it 
was ;  tears  came  into  his  eyes ;  he  resolved  to  write 
to  Kinney  and  exonerate  Eicker,  he  resolved  humbly 
to  beg  Kicker's  pardon.  He  must  leave  Boston ;  but 
if  Marcia  would  forgive  him,  he  would  go  back  with 
her  to  Equity,  and  take  up  the  study  of  the  law  in 
her  father's  office  again,  and  fulfil  all  her  wishes.  He 
would  have  a  hard  time  to  overcome  the  old  man's 
prejudices,  but  he  deserved  a  hard  time,  and  he  knew 
he  should  finally  succeed.  It  would  be  bitter,  re- 
turning to  that  stupid  little  town,  and  he  imagined 
the  intrusive  conjecture  and  sarcastic  comment  that 
would  attend  his  return;  but  he  believed  that  he 
could  live  this  down,  and  he  trusted  himself  to  laugh 
it  down.  He  already  saw  himself  there,  settled  in 
the  Squire's  office,  reinstated  in  public  opinion,  a 
leading  lawyer  of  the  place,  with  Congress  open  be- 
fore him  whenever  he  chose  to  turn  his  face  that  way. 
He  had  thought  of  going  first  to  Halleck,  and 
returning  the  money,  but  he  was  willing  to  give 
himself  the  encouragement  of  Marcia's  pleasure,  of 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  389 

her  forgiveness  and  her  praise  in  an  affair  that  had 
its  difficulties  and  would  require  all  his  manfulness. 
The  maid  met  him  at  the  door  with  little  Flavia,  and 
told  him  that  Marcia  had  gone  out  to  the  Hallecks', 
but  had  left  word  that  she  would  soon  return,  and 
that  then  they  would  have  supper  together.  Her 
absence  dashed  his  warm  impulse,  but  he  recovered 
himself,  and  took  the  little  one  from  the  maid.  He 
lighted  the  gas  in  the  parlor,  and  had  a  frolic  with 
Flavia  in  kindling  a  fire  in  the  grate,  and  making  the 
room  bright  and  cheerful.  He  played  with  the  child 
and  made  her  laugh ;  he  already  felt  the  pleasure  of 
a  good  conscience,  though  with  a  faint  nether  ache 
in  his  heart  which  was  perhaps  only  his  wish  to  have 
the  disagreeable  preliminaries  to  his  better  life  over 
as  soon  as  possible.  He  drew  two  easy-chairs  up  at 
opposite  corners  of  the  hearth,  and  sat  down  in  one, 
leaving  the  other  for  Marcia  ;  he  had  Flavia  standing 
on  his  knees,  and  clinging  fast  to  his  fingers,  laughing 
and  crowing  while  he  danced  her  up  and  down,  when 
he  heard  the  front  door  open,  and  Marcia  burst  into 
the  room. 

She  ran  to  him  and  plucked  the  child  from  him, 
and  then  went  back  as  far  as  she  could  from  him  in 
the  room,  crying,  "  Give  me  the  child  ! "  and  facing 
him  with  the  look  he  knew.  Her  eyes  were  dilated, 
and  her  visage  white  with  the  transport  that  had 
whirled  her  far  beyond  the  reach  of  reason.  The 
frail  structure  of  his  good  resolutions  dropped  to 
ruin  at  the  sight,  but  he  mechanically  rose  and  ad- 
vanced upon  her  till  she  forbade  him  with  a  muffled 
shriek  of  "  Don't  touch  me  !  So  !  "  she  went  on,  gasping 
and  catching  her  breath,  "  it  was  you  !  I  might  have 
known  it !  I  might  have  guessed  it  from  the  first ! 
You  !  Was  that  the  reason  why  you  did  n't  care  to 
have  me  hurry  home  this  summer  ?  Was  that  — 
was  that  —  "  She  choked,  and  convulsively  pressed 


890  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

her  face  into  the  neck  of  the  child,  which  began 
to  cry. 

Bartley  closed  the  doors,  and  then,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  confronted  her  with  a  smile  of  wicked 
coolness.  "  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what 
you  're  talking  about  ? " 

"  Do  you  pretend  that  you  don't  know  ?  I  met  a 
woman  at  the  bottom  of  the  street  just  now.  Do 
you  know  who  ? " 

"  No ;  but  it 's  very  dramatic.     Go  on ! " 

"  It  was  Hannah  Morrison !  She  reeled  against 
me  ;  and  when  I  —  such  a  fool  as  I  was !  —  pitied 
her,  because  I  was  on  my  way  home  to  you,  and  was 
thinking  about  you  and  loving  you,  and  was  so  happy 
in  it,  and  asked  her  how  she  came  to  that,  she  struck 
me,  and  told  me  to  —  to  —  ask  my  —  husband !  " 

The  transport  broke  in  tears;  the  denunciation 
had  turned  to  entreaty  in  everything  but  words  ;  but 
Bartley  had  hardened  his  heart  now  past  all  entreaty. 
The  idiotic  penitent  that  he  had  been  a  few  moments 
ago,  the  soft,  well-meaning  dolt,  was  so  far  from  him 
now  as  to  be  scarce  within  the  reach  of  his  contempt. 
He  was  going  to  have  this  thing  over  once  for  all; 
he  would  have  no  mercy  upon  himself  or  upon  her ; 
the  Devil  was  in  him,  and  uppermost  in  him,  and  the 
Devil  is  fierce  and  proud,  and  knows  how  to  make 
many  base  emotions  feel  like  a  just  self-respect.  "  And 
did  you  believe  a  woman  like  that  ? "  he  sneered. 

"  Do  I  believe  a  man  like  this  ? "  she  demanded, 
with  a  dying  flash  of  her  fury.  "  You  —  you  don't 
dare  to  deny  it." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  deny  it.  For  one  reason,  it  would 
be  of  no  use.  For  all  practical  purposes,  I  admit  it. 
What  then?" 

"  What  then  ?  "  she  asked,  bewildered.  "  Bartley ! 
You  don't  mean  it ! " 

"  Yes,  I  do.     I  mean  it.     I  don't  deny  it.    Whafc 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  391 

fchen  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? "  She 
gazed  at  him  in  incredulous  horror.  "  Come  !  I 
mean  what  I  say.  What  will  you  do  ? " 

"  Oh,  merciful  God !  what  shall  I  do  ? "  she  prayed 
aloud. 

"That's  just  what  I'm  curious  to  know.  When 
you  leaped  in  here,  just  now,  you  must  have  meant 
to  do  something,  if  I  could  n't  convince  you  that  the 
woman  was  lying.  Well,  you  see  that  I  don't  try. 
I  give  you  leave  to  believe  whatever  she  said.  What 
then?" 

"  Bartley ! "  she  besought  him  in  her  despair.  "  Do 
you  drive  me  from  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  certainly  not.  That  is  n't  my  way.  You 
have  driven  me  from  you,  and  I  might  claim  the  right 
to  retaliate,  but  I  don't.  I  Ve  no  expectation  that 
you  '11  go  away,  and  I  want  to  see  what  else  you  '11 
do.  You  would  have  me,  before  we  were  married  ; 
you  were  tolerably  shameless  in  getting  me;  when 
your  jealous  temper  made  you  throw  me  away,  you 
couldn't  live  till  you  got  me  back  again;  you  ran 
after  me.  Well,  I  suppose  you've  learnt  wisdom, 
now.  At  least  you  won't  try  that  game  again.  But 
what  will  you  do  ? "  He  looked  at  her  smiling,  while 
he  dealt  her  these  stabs  one  by  one. 

She  set  down  the  child,  and  went  out  to  the  entry 
where  its  hat  and  cloak  hung.  She  had  not  taken  off 
her  own  things,  and  now  she  began  to  put  on  the  little 
one's  garments  with  shaking  hands,  kneeling  before 
it.  "  I  will  never  live  with  you  again,  Bartley,"  she 
laid. 

"Very  well.  I  doubt  it,  as  far  as  you're  con- 
cerned ;  but  if  you  go  away  now,  you  certainly  wont 
live  with  me  again,  for  I  shall  not  let  you  come  back. 
Understand  that." 

Each  had  most  need  of  the  other's  mercy,  but 
neither  would  have  mercy. 


392  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

"It  isn't  for  what  you  won't  deny.  I  don't  be« 
lieve  that.  It's  for  what  you've  said  now."  She 
sould  not  make  the  buttons  and  the  button-holes  of 
the  child's  sack  meet  with  her  quivering  fingers ;  he 
actually  stooped  down  and  buttoned  the  little  gar- 
ment for  her,  as  if  they  had  been  going  to  take  the 
child  out  for  a  walk  between  them.  She  caught  it  up 
in  her  arms,  and,  sobbing  "  Good  by,  Bartley ! "  ran  out 
of  the  room. 

"  Kecollect  that  if  you  go,  you  don't  come  back," 
he  said.  The  outer  door  crashing  to  behind  her  was 
his  answer. 

He  sat  down  to  think,  before  the  fire  he  had  built 
for  her.  It  was  blazing  brightly  now,  and  the  whole 
room  had  a  hideous  cosiness.  He  could  not  think,  he 
must  act.  He  went  up  to  their  room,  where  the  gaa 
was  burning  low,  as  if  she  had  lighted  it  and  then 
frugally  turned  it  down  as  her  wont  was.  He  did 
not  know  what  his  purpose  was,  but  it  developed  it- 
self. He  began  to  pack  his  things  in  a  travelling-bag 
which  he  took  out  of  the  closet,  and  which  he  had 
bought  for  her  when  she  set  out  for  Equity  in  the 
Bummer ;  it  had  the  perfume  of  her  dresses  yet. 

When  this  was  finished,  he  went  down  stairs  again 
and  being  now  strangely  hungry  he  made  a  meal  of 
such  things  as  he  found  set  out  on  the  tea-table. 
Then  he  went  over  the  papers  in  his  secretary ;  he 
burnt  some  of  them,  and  put  others  into  his  bag. 

After  all  this  was  done  he  sat  down  by  the  fire 
again,  and  gave  Marcia  a  quarter  of  an  hour  longer 
in  which  to  return.  He  did  not  know  whether  he 
was  afraid  that  she  would  or  would  not  come.  But 
when  the  time  ended,  he  took  up  his  bag  and  went 
out  of  the  house.  It  began  to  rain,  and  he  went 
back  for  an  umbrella :  he  gave  her  that  one  chance 
more,  and  he  ran  up  into  their  room.  But  she  had 
not  come  back.  He  went  out  again,  and  hurried 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  393 

away  through  the  rain  to  the  Albany  Depot,  where  he 
bought  a  ticket  for  Chicago.  There  was  as  yet  noth- 
ing definite  in  his  purpose,  beyond  the  fact  that  he 
was  to  be  rid  of  her:  whether  for  a  long  or  short 
time,  or  forever,  he  did  not  yet  know ;  whether  he 
jneant  ever  to  communicate  with  her,  or  seek  or  suffer 
a  reconciliation,  the  locomotive  that  leaped  westward 
into  the  dark  with  him  knew  as  well  as  he. 

Yet  all  the  mute,  obscure  forces  of  habit,  which  are 
doubtless  the  strongest  forces  in  human  nature,  were 
dragging  him  back  to  her.  Because  their  lives  had 
been  united  so  long,  it  seemed  impossible  to  sever 
them,  though  their  union  had  been  so  full  of  misery 
and  discord ;  the  custom  of  marriage  was  so  subtile 
and  so  pervasive,  that  his  heart  demanded  her  sym- 
pathy for  what  he  was  suffering  in  abandoning  her. 
The  solitude  into  which  he  had  plunged  stretched  be- 
fore him  so  vast,  so  sterile  and  hopeless,  that  he  had 
not  the  courage  to  realize  it ;  he  insensibly  began  to 
give  it  limits :  he  would  return  after  so  many  months, 
weeks,  days. 

He  passed  twenty-four  hours  on  the  train,  and  left 
it  at  Cleveland  for  the  half-hour  it  stopped  for  sup- 
per. But  he  could  not  eat ;  he  had  to  own  to  him- 
self that  he  was  beaten,  and  that  he  must  return, 
or  throw  himself  into  the  lake.  He  ran  hastily  to 
the  baggage-car,  and  effected  the  removal  of  his  bag ; 
then  he  went  to  the  ticket-office,  and  waited  at  the 
end  of  a  long  queue  for  his  turn  at  the  window.  His 
turn  came  at  last,  and  he  confronted  the  nervous  and 
impatient  ticket-agent,  without  speaking. 

"  Well,  sir,  what  do  you  want  ? "  demanded  the 
agent.  Then,  with  rising  temper,  "What  is  it? 
Are  you  deaf  ?  Are  you  dumb  ?  You  can't  expect 
to  stand  there  all  night !  " 

The  policeman  outside  the  rail  laid  his  hand  on 
Bartley's  shoulder ;  "  Move  on,  my  friend." 


394  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

He  obeyed,  and  reeled  away  in  a  fashion  that  con« 
firmed  the  policeman's  suspicions.  He  searched  hia 
pockets  again  and  again ;  but  his  porte-monnaie  was 
in  none  of  them.  It  had  been  stolen,  and  Halleck's 
money  with  the  rest.  Now  he  could  not  return; 
nothing  remained  for  him  but  the  ruin  he  had 
chosea 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  395 


XXXII 

HALLECK  prolonged  his  summer  vacation  beyond  the 
end  of  October.  He  had  been  in  town  from  time  to 
time  and  then  had  set  off  again  on  some  new  absence  ; 
he  was  so  restless  and  so  far  from  well  during  the 
last  of  these  flying  visits,  that  the  old  people  were 
glad  when  he  wrote  them  that  he  should  stay  as  long 
as  the  fine  weather  continued.  He  spoke  of  an  inter- 
esting man  whom  he  had  met  at  the  mountain  resort 
where  he  was  staying ;  a  Spanish- American,  attached 
to  one  of  the  Legations  at  Washington,  who  had  a 
scheme  for  Americanizing  popular  education  in  his 
own  country.  "  He  has  made  a  regular  set  at  me," 
Halleck  wrote,  "  and  if  I  had  not  fooled  away  so  much 
time  already  on  law  and  on  leather,  I  should  like  to 
fool  away  a  little  more  on  such  a  cause  as  this."  He 
did  not  mention  the  matter  again  in  his  letters ;  but 
the  first  night  after  his  return,  when  they  all  sat  to- 
gether in  the  comfort  of  having  him  at  home  again, 
he  asked  his  father,  "  What  should  you  think  of  my 
going  to  South  America  ? " 

The  old  man  started  up  from  the  pleasant  after- 
supper  drowse  into  which  he  was  suffering  himsel) 
to  fall,  content  with  Halleck's  presence,  and  willing 
to  leave  the  talk  to  the  women  folk.  "  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean,  Ben  ? " 

"  I  suppose  it 's  my  having  the  matter  so  much  in 
mind  that  makes  me  feel  as  if  we  had  talked  it  over. 
I  mentioned  it  in  one  of  my  letters." 

"Yes,"  returned  his  father;  "but  I  presumed  you 
irere  joking." 


396  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

Halleck  frowned  impatiently;  he  would  not  meet  the 
gaze  of  his  mother  and  sisters,  but  he  addressed  him- 
self again  to  his  father.  "  I  don't  know  that  I  was  in 
earnest."  His  mother  dropped  her  eyes  to  her  mend- 
ing, with  a  faint  sigh  of  relief.  "  But  I  can't  say,"  he 
added,  "that  I  was  joking,  exactly.  The  man  himself 
was  very  serious  about  it."  He  stopped,  apparently 
to  govern  an  irritable  impulse,  and  then  he  went  on 
to  set  the  project  of  his  Spanish- American  acquaint- 
ance before  them,  explaining  it  in  detail. 

At  the  end,  "That's  good,"  said  his  father,  "but 
why  need  you  have  gone,  Ben  ?  " 

The  question  seemed  to  vex  Halleck ;  he  did  not 
answer  at  once.  His  mother  could  not  bear  to  see 
him  crossed,  and  she  came  to  his  help  against  herself 
and  his  father,  since  it  was  only  supposing  the  case. 
"  I  presume,"  she  said,  "  that  we  could  have  looked 
at  it  as  a  missionary  work." 

"It  isn't  a  missionary  work,  mother,"  answered 
Halleck,  severely,  "  in  any  sense  that  you  mean.  I 
should  go  down  there  to  teach,  and  I  should  be  paid 
for  it.  And  I  want  to  say  at  once  that  they  have  no 
yellow-fever  nor  earthquakes,  and  that  they  have  not 
had  a  revolution  for  six  years.  The  country's  per- 
fectly safe  every  way,  and  so  wholesome  that  it  will 
be  a  good  thing  for  me.  But  I  should  n't  expect  to 
convert  anybody." 

"  Of  course  not,  Ben,"  said  his  mother,  soothingly. 

"  I  hope  you  would  n't  object  to  it  if  it  were  a  mis 
sionary  work,"  said  one  of  the  elder  sisters. 

"  No,  Anna,"  returned  Ben. 

"  I  merely  wanted  to  know,"  said  Anna. 

"  Then  I  hope  you  're  satisfied,  Anna,"  Olive  cut  in. 
u  Ben  won't  refuse  to  convert  the  Uruguayans  if  the^ 
apply  in  a  proper  spirit." 

"  I  think  Anna  had  a  right  to  ask,"  said  Miss  Louisa, 
the  eldest. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  397 

"Oh,  undoubtedly,  Miss  Halleck,"  said  Olive.  "1 
like  to  see  Ben  reproved  for  misbehavior  to  his  mother, 
myself." 

Her  father  laughed  at  Olive's  prompt  defence. 
"  Well,  it 's  a  cause  that  we've  all  got  to  respect ;  but 
£  don't  see  why  you  should  go,  Ben,  as  I  said  before. 
It  would  do  very  well  for  some  young  fellow  who  had 
no  settled  prospects,  but  you  've  got  your  duties  here. 
I  presume  you  looked  at  it  in  that  light.  As  you 
said  in  your  letter,  you  Ve  fooled  away  so  much  time 
on  leather  and  law  —  " 

"  I  shall  never  amount  to  anything  in  the  law ! "  Ben 
broke  out.  His  mother  looked  at  him  in  anxiety ;  his 
father  kept  a  steady  smile  on  his  face ;  Olive  sat  alert 
for  any  chance  that  offered  to  put  down  her  elder  sis- 
ters, who  drew  in  their  breath,  and  grew  silently  a 
little  primmer.  "  I  'm  not  well  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  're  not,  dear,"  interrupted  his 
mother,  glad  of  another  chance  to  abet  him. 

"  I  'm  not  strong  enough  to  go  on  with  the  line  of 
work  I  Ve  marked  out,  and  I  feel  that  I  'm  throwing 
away  the  feeble  powers  I  have." 

His  father  answered  with  less  surprise  than  Hal- 
leck had  evidently  expected,  for  he  had  thrown  out  his 
words  with  a  sort  of  defiance ;  probably  the  old  man 
had  watched  him  closely  enough  to  surmise  that  it 
might  come  to  this  with  him  at  last.  At  any  rate,  he 
was  able  to  say,  without  seeming  to  assent  too  readily, 
"  Well,  well,  give  up  the  law,  then,  and  come  back 
into  leather,  as  you  call  it.  Or  take  up  something 
else.  We  don't  wish  to  make  anything  a  burden  to 
you ;  but  take  up  some  useful  work  at  home.  There 
are  plenty  of  things  to  be  done." 

"  Not  for  me,"  said  Halleck,  gloomily. 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  are,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  I  see  you  are  not  willing  to  have  me  go,"  said 
Halleck,  rising  in  uncontrollable  irritation.  "  But  1 
wish  you  would  n't  all  take  this  tone  with  me  1  * 


398  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  We  have  n't  taken  any  tone  with  you,  Ben/'  saifl 
his  mother,  with  pleading  tenderness. 

"  I  think  Anna  has  decidedly  taken  a  tone,"  said 
Olive. 

Anna  did  not  retort,  but  "  What  tone  ? "  demanded 
Louisa,  in  her  behalf. 

"  Hush,  children,"  said  their  mother. 

"  Well,  well,"  suggested  his  father  to  Ben.  "  Think 
it  over,  think  it  over.  There  's  no  hurry." 

"I've  thought  it  over;  there  is  hurry,"  retorted 
Halleck.  "If  I  go,  I  must  go  at  once." 

His  mother  arrested  her  thread,  half  drawn  through 
the  seam,  letting  her  hand  drop,  while  she  glanced  at 
him. 

"  It  is  n't  so  much  a  question  of  your  giving  up  the 
law,  Ben,  as  of  your  giving  up  your  family  and  going 
so  far  away  from  us  all,"  said  his  father.  "  That 's 
what  I  should  n't  like." 

"  I  don't  like  that,  either.  But  I  can't  help  it." 
He  added,  "  Of  course,  mother,  I  shall  not  go  with- 
out your  full  and  free  consent.  You  and  father  must 
settle  it  between  you."  He  fetched  a  quick,  worried 
sigh  as  he  put  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"  Ben  is  n't  himself  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Halleck,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  after  he  had  left  the  room. 

"  No,"  said  her  husband.  "  He 's  restless.  He  '11 
get  over  this  idea  in  a  few  days."  He  urged  this 
hope  against  his  wife's  despair,  and  argued  himself 
into  low  spirits. 

"  I  don't  believe  but  what  it  would  be  the  best 
thing  for  his  health,  may  be,"  said  Mrs.  Halleck,  at 
the  end. 

"I've  always  had  my  doubts  whether  he  would 
ever  come  to  anything  in  the  law,"  said  the  father. 

The  elder  sisters  discussed  Halleck's  project  apart 
between  themselves,  as  their  wont  was  with  any 
family  interest,  and  they  bent  over  a  map  of  South 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  399 

America,  so  as  to  hide  what  they  were  doing  from 
their  mother. 

Olive  had  left  the  room  by  another  door,  and  she 
Intercepted  Halleck  before  he  reached  his  own. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Ben  ? "  she  whispered. 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered,  coldly.  But  he  added; 
"  Come  in,  Olive." 

She  followed  him,  and  hovered  near  after  he  turned 
up  the  gas. 

"  I  can't  stand  it  here,  I  must  go,"  he  said,  turning 
a  dull,  weary  look  upon  her. 

"  Who  was  at  the  Elm  House  that  you  knew  this 
last  time  ?  "  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  Laura  Dixmore  is  n't  driving  me  away,  if  you 
mean  that,"  replied  Halleck. 

"  I  could  n't  believe  it  was  she !  I  should  have 
despised  you  if  it  was.  But  I  shall  hate  her,  whoever 
it  was." 

Halleck  sat  down  before  his  table,  and  his  sister 
sank  upon  the  corner  of  a  chair  near  it,  and  looked 
wistfully  at  him.  "  I  know  there  is  some  one!" 

"  If  you  think  I  've  been  fool  enough  to  offer  my- 
self to  any  one,  Olive,  you  're  very  much  mistaken." 

"  Oh,  it  need  n't  have  come  to  that,"  said  Olive, 
with  indignant  pity. 

"  My  life 's  a  failure  here,"  cried  Halleck,  moving  his 
head  uneasily  from  side  to  side.  "  I  feel  somehow  as 
if  I  could  go  out  there  and  pick  up  the  time  I  Ve  lost. 
Great  Heaven  ! "  he  cried,  "  if  I  were  only  running 
away  from  some  innocent  young  girl's  rejection,  what 
a  happy  man  I  should  be  ! " 

"  It 's  some  horrid  married  thing,  then,  that 's  been, 
flirting  with  you  ! " 

He  gave  a  forlorn  laugh.  "  I  'd  almost  confess  it  to 
please  you,  Olive.  But  I  'd  prefer  to  get  out  of  the 
matter  without  lying,  if  I  could.  Why  need  you  sup- 
pose any  reason  but  the  sufficient  one  I  've  given  ?  — 


400  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"Don't  afflict  me  !  don't  imagine  things  about  me,  don't 
make  a  mystery  of  me  !  I  've  been  blunt  and  awk- 
ward, and  I  Ve  bungled  the  business  with  father  and 
mother ;  but  I  want  to  get  away  because  I  'm  a  mis- 
arable  fraud  here,  and  I  think  I  might  rub  on  a  good 
while  there  before  I  found  myself  out  again." 

"  Ben,"  demanded  Olive,  regardless  of  his  words, 
"  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  The  old  story,  —  nothing." 

«  Is  that  true,  Ben  ?  " 

"  You  used  to  be  satisfied  with  asking  once,  Olive." 

"  You  have  n't  been  so  wicked,  so  careless,  as  to  get 
some  poor  creature  in  love  with  you,  and  then  want  to 
run  away  from  the  misery  you  've  made  ? " 

"  I  suppose  if  I  look  it  there 's  no  use  denying  it," 
said  Halleck,  letting  his  sad  eyes  meet  hers,  and  smil- 
ing drearily.  "You  insist  upon  having  a  lady  in  the 
case?" 

"  Yes.  But  I  see  you  won't  tell  me  anything ;  and 
I  won't  afflict  you.  Only  I  'm  afraid  it 's  just  some 
silly  thing,  that  you  've  got  to  brooding  over,  and  that 
you  '11  let  drive  you  away." 

"  Well,  you  have  the  comfort  of  reflecting  that  I 
can't  get  away,  whatever  the  pressure  is." 

"  You  know  better  than  that,  Ben ;  and  so  do  I. 
You  know  that,  if  you  have  n't  got  father  and  mother's 
consent  already,  it 's  only  because  you  have  n't  had  the 
heart  to  ask  for  it.  As  far  as  that 's  concerned,  you  're 
gone  already.  But  I  hope  you  won't  go  without 
thinking  it  over,  as  father  says,  —  and  talking  it  over. 
I  hate  to  have  you  seem  unsteady  and  fickle-minded, 
when  I  know  you  're  not ;  arid  I  'm  going  to  set  myself 
against  this  project  till  I  know  what 's  driving  you 
from  us,  — or  till  I  'm  sure  that  it's  something  worth 
while.  You  need  n't  expect  that  I  shall  help  to  make 
it  easy  for  you ;  I  shall  help  to  make  it  hard." 

Her  loving  looks  belied  her  threats ;  if  the  others 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  401 

could  not  resist  Ben  when  any  sort  of  desire  showed 
itself  through  his  habitual  listlessness,  how  could  she? 
who  understood  him  best  and  S}^mpathized  with  him 
most  ?  "  There  was  something  I  was  going  to  talk  to 
f  ou  about,  to-night,  if  you  had  n't  scared  us  all  wit! 
this  ridiculous  scheme,  and  ask  you  whether  you 
could  n't  do  something."  She  seemed  to  suggest  the 
change  of  interest  with  the  hope  of  winning  his 
thoughts  away  from  the  direction  they  had  taken; 
but  he  listened  apathetically,  and  left  her  to  go  fur- 
ther or  not  as  she  chose.  "  I  think,"  she  added  ab- 
ruptly, "that  some  trouble  is  hanging  over  those 
wretched  Hubbards." 

"  Some  new  one  ? "  asked  Halleck,  with  sad  sar- 
casm, turning  his  eyes  towards  her,  as  if  with  the  res- 
olution of  facing  her. 

"  You  know  he  's  left  his  place  on  that  newspaper." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  that  when  I  was  at  home  before." 

"  There  are  some  very  disagreeable  stories  about  it. 
They  say  he  was  turned  away  by  Mr.  Witherby  for 
behaving  badly,  —  for  printing  something  he  ought  n't 
to  have  done." 

"  That  was  to  have  been  expected,"  said  Halleck. 

"  He  has  n't  found  any  other  place,  and  Marcia  says 
he  gets  very  little  work  to  do.  He  must  be  running 
into  debt,  terribly.  I  feel  very  anxious  about  them. 
I  don't  know  what  they  're  living  on." 

"  Probably  on  some  money  I  lent  him,"  said  Hal- 
leck, quietly.  "I  lent  him  fifteen  hundred  in  the 
spring.  It  ought  to  make  him  quite  comfortable  foi 
the  present." 

"  Oh,  Ben !  Why  did  you  lend  him  money  ?  You 
might  have  known  he  would  n't  do  any  good  with  it." 

Halleck  explained  how  and  why  the  loan  had  been 
made,  and  added  :  "  If  he 's  supporting  his  family  with 
it,  he 's  doing  some  good.  I  lent  it  to  him  for  hey 
sake." 

26 


402  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

Halleck  looked  hardily  into  his  sister's  face,  but  ha 
dropped  his  eyes  when  she  answered,  simply :  "  Yes, 
of  course.  But  I  don't  believe  she  knows  anything 
ibout  it ;  and  I  'm  glad  of  it :  it  would  only  add 
to  her  trouble.  She  worships  you,  Ben!" 

"Does  she?" 

"  She  seems  to  think  you  are  perfect,  and  she  never 
comes  here  but  she  asks  when  you  're  to  be  home. 
I  suppose  she  thinks  you  have  a  good  influence  on 
that  miserable  husband  of  hers.  He  's  going  from 
bad  to  worse,  I  guess.  Father  heard  that  he  is  bet- 
ting on  the  election.  That 's  what  he 's  doing  with 
your  money." 

"  It  would  be  somebody  else's  money  if  it  was  n't 
mine,"  said  Halleck.  "  Bartley  Hubbard  must  live, 
and  he  must  have  the  little  excitements  that  make 
life  agreeable." 

"  Poor  thing ! "  sighed  Olive,  "  I  don't  know  what 
she  would  do  if  she  heard  that  you  were  going  away. 
To  hear  her  talk,  you  would  think  she  had  been 
counting  the  days  and  hours  till  you  got  back.  It 's 
ridiculous,  the  way  she  goes  on  with  mother ;  asking 
everything  about  you,  as  if  she  expected  to  make 
Bartley  Hubbard  over  again  on  your  pattern.  I 
should  hate  to  have  anybody  think  me  such  a  saint  as 
she  does  you.  But  there  is  n't  much  danger,  thank 
goodness !  I  could  laugh,  sometimes,  at  the  way 
she  questions  us  all  about  you,  and  is  so  delighted 
when  she  finds  that  you  and  that  wretch  have  any- 
thing in  common.  But  it's  all  too  miserably  sad 
She  certainly  is  the  most  single-hearted  creature 
alive,"  continued  Olive,  reflectively.  "  Sometimes  she 
scares  me  with  her  innocence.  I  don't  believe  that 
even  her  jealousy  ever  suggested  a  wicked  idea  to 
her :  she  's  furious  because  she  feels  the  injustice 
of  giving  so  much  more  than  he  does.  She  has  n't 
really  a  thought  for  anybody  else :  I  do  believe  that 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  403 

Jf  she  were  free  to  choose  from  now  till  doomsday 
she  would  always  choose  Bartley  Hubbard,  bad  as 
she  knows  him  to  be.  And  if  she  were  a  widow, 
and  anybody  else  proposed  to  her,  she  would  be 
Mtterly  shocked  and  astonished." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Halleck,  absently. 

"  I  feel  very  unhappy  about  her,"  Olive  resumed 
*  I  know  that  she 's  anxious  and  troubled  all  the  time. 
Can't  you  do  something,  Ben  ?  Have  a  talk  with 
that  disgusting  thing,  and  see  if  you  can't  put  him 
straight  again,  somehow  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  exclaimed  Halleck,  bursting  violently  from 
his  abstraction.  "I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with 
them  !  Let  him  go  his  own  way  and  the  sooner  he 
goes  to  the  —  I  won't  interfere,  —  I  can't,  I  must  n't  I 
I  wonder  at  you,  Olive  ! "  He  pushed  away  from 
the  table,  and  went  limping  about  the  room,  searching 
here  and  there  for  his  hat  and  stick,  which  were  on 
the  desk  where  he  had  put  them,  in  plain  view.  As 
he  laid  hand  on  them  at  last,  he  met  his  sister's  as- 
tonished eyes.  "  If  I  interfered,  I  should  not  inter- 
fere because  I  cared  for  him  at  all ! "  he  cried. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Olive.  "  But  I  don't  see  any* 
thing  to  make  you  wonder  at  me  about  that." 

"  It  would  be  because  I  cared  for  her  —  " 

"  Certainly  !  You  did  n't  suppose  I  expected  you 
to  interfere  from  any  other  motive  ? " 

He  stood  looking  at  her  in  stupefaction,  with  his 
hand  on  his  hat  and  stick,  like  a  man  who  doubts 
whether  he  has  heard  aright.  Presently  a  shiver 
passed  over  him,  another  light  came  into  his  eyes, 
and  he  said  quietly,  "  I  'm  going  out  to  see  Atherton." 

"  To-night  ?  "  said  his  sister,  accepting  provisionally, 
as  women  do,  the  apparent  change  of  subject.  "  Don't 
go  to-night,  Ben !  You  're  too  tired" 

"  I  'in  not  tired.  I  intended  to  see  him  to-night, 
C-t  any  rate.  I  want  to  talk  over  this  South  Ameri- 


404  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

can  scheme  with  him."  He  put  on  his  hat,  and  movecl 
quickly  toward  the  door. 

"  Ask  him  about  the  Hubbards,"  said  Olive.  "  Per- 
haps he  can  tell  you  something." 

"  I  don't  want  to  know  anything.  I  shall  ask  him 
nothing." 

She  slipped  between  him  and  the  door.  "  Ben,  you 
have  n't  heard  anything  against  poor  Marcia,  have 
you?" 

"No!" 

"  You  don't  think  she 's  to  blame  in  any  way  for 
his  going  wrong,  do  you  ? 

"How  could  I?" 

"  Then  I  don't  understand  why  you  won't  do  any- 
thing to  help  her." 

He  looked  at  her  again,  and  opened  his  lips  to 
speak  once,  but  closed  them  before  he  said,  "  I  've 
got  my  own  affairs  to  worry  me.  Is  n't  that  reason 
enough  for  not  interfering  in  theirs  ?  " 

"  Not  for  you,  Ben." 

"  Then  I  don't  choose  to  mix  myself  up  in  other 
people's  misery.  I  don't  like  it,  as  you  once  said." 

"  But  you  can't  help  it  sometimes,  as  you  said." 

"I   can   this  time,  Olive.     Don't  you  see,  —  "he 


"  I  see  there  's  something  you  won't  tell  me.  But 
I  shall  find  it  out."  She  threatened  him  naif  play- 
fully. 

"  I  wish  you  could,"  he  answered.  "  Then  perhaps 
you'd  let  me  know."  She  opened  the  door  for  him 
now,  and  as  he  passed  out  he  said  gently,  "I  am 
tired,  but  I  sha'n't  begin  to  rest  till  I  have  had  thif 
talk  with  Atherton.  I  had  better  go." 

"  Yes,"  Olive  assented,  "  you  'd  better."  She  added 
in  banter,  "  You  're  altogether  too  mysterious  to  be  o.f 
much  comfort  at  home." 

The  family  heard  him  close  the  outside  door  be* 


A   MGDEKN  INSTANCE.  405 

hind  him  after  Olive  came  back  to  them,  and  she 
explained,  "  He 's  gone  out  to  talk  it  over  with  Mr. 
Atherton." 

His  father  gave  a  laugh  of  relief.  "Well,  if  he 
leaves  it  to  Atherton,  I  guess  we  needn't  worry 
about  it." 

"  The  child  is  n't  at  all  well,"  said  his  mother 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 


xxxm. 

HALLECK  met  Atherton  at  the  door  of  Ms  room  witfc 
his  hat  and  coat  on.  "  Why,  Halleck !  I  was  just 
going  to  see  if  you  had  come  home  ! " 

"  You  need  n't  now,"  said  Halleck,  pushing  by  him 
into  the  room.  "  I  want  to  see  you,  Atherton,  on 
business." 

Atherton  took  off  his  hat,  and  closed  the  door  with 
one  hand,  while  he  slipped  the  other  arm  out  of  his 
overcoat  sleeve.  "Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was 
going  to  mingle  a  little  business  myself  with  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you."  He  turned  up  the  gas  in  his 
drop-light,  and  took  the  chair  from  which  he  had 
looked  across  the  table  at  Halleck,  when  they  talked 
there  before.  "  It 's  the  old  subject,"  he  said,  with  a 
sense  of  repetition  in  the  situation.  "  I  learn  from 
Witherby  that  Hubbard  has  taken  that  money  of 
yours  out  of  the  Events,  and  from  what  I  hear  else- 
where he  is  making  ducks  and  drakes  of  it  on  elec- 
tion bets.  What  shall  you  do  about  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Halleck. 

"  Oh !  Very  well,"  returned  Atherton,  with  the  ef 
feet  of  being  a  little  snubbed,  but  resolved  to  take 
his  snub  professionally.  He  broke  out,  however,  in 
friendly  exasperation  :  "  Why  in  the  world  did  you 
lend  the  fellow  that  money  ? " 

Halleck  lifted  his  brooding  eyes,  and  fixed  them 
ball'  pleadingly,  half  defiantly  upon  his  friend's  faca 
"  I  did  it  for  his  wife's  sake." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  returned  Atherton.  "  I  remembei 
bow  you  felt.  I  could  n't  share  your  feeling,  but  1 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  407 

respected  it.  However,  I  doubt  if  your  loan  was  a 
benefit  to  either  of  them.  It  probably  tempted  him 
to  count  upon  money  that  he  hadn't  earned,  and 
that 's  always  corrupting." 

"  Yes,"  Halleck  replied.  "  But  I  can't  say  that,  so 
/ar  as  he 's  concerned,  I  'm  very  sorry.  I  don't  sup- 
pose it  would  do  her  any  good  if  I  forced  him  to  dis- 
gorge any  balance  he  may  have  left  from  his  wagers  ? " 

"  No,  hardly." 

"  Then  I  shall  let  him  alone." 

The  subject  was  dismissed,  and  Atherton  waited 
for  Halleck  to  speak  of  the  business  on  which  he  had 
come.  But  Halleck  only  played  with  the  paper 
cutter  which  his  left  hand  had  found  on  the  table  near 
him,  and,  with  his  chin  sunk  on  his  breast,  seemed 
lost  in  an  unhappy  reverie. 

"I  hope  you  won't  accuse  yourself  of  doing  him 
an  injury,"  said  Athertou,  at  last,  with  a  smile. 

"Injury?"  demanded  Halleck,  quickly.  "What 
injury  ?  How  ? " 

"  By  lending  him  that  money." 

"  Oh !  I  had  forgotten  that ;  I  was  n't  thinking  of 
it,"  returned  Halleck  impatiently.  "  I  was  thinking 
of  something  different.  I  'm  aware  of  disliking  the 
man  so  much,  that  I  should  be  willing  to  have  greater 
harm  than  that  happen  to  him,  —  the  greatest,  for 
what  I  know.  Though  I  don't  know,  after  all,  that  it 
would  be  harm.  In  another  life,  if  there  is  one,  he 
might  start  in  a  new  direction ;  but  that  is  n't  im- 
aginable of  him  here ;  he  can  only  go  from  bad  to 
worse  ;  he  can  only  make  more  and  more  sorrow  and 
ehame.  Why  shouldn't  one  wish  him  dead,  when 
his  death  could  do  nothing  but  good  ? " 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  expect  me  to  answer  such  a 
question  seriously." 

"  But  suppose  I  did  ?  " 

*  Then  I  should  say  that  no  man  ever  wished  any 


408  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

such  good  as  that,  except  from  the  worst  motive,; 
and  the  less  one  has  to  do  with  such  questions,  even 
as  abstractions,  the  better." 

"  You  're  right,"  said  Halleck.  "  But  why  do  you 
call  it  an  abstraction  ?  " 

"  Because,  in  your  case,  nothing  else  is  conceivable. 

*  I  told  you  I  was  willing  the  worst  should  happen 
to  him." 

"And  I  did  n't  believe  you." 

Halleck  lay  back  in  his  chair,  and  laughed  wearily. 
"I  wish  I  could  convince  somebody  of  rny  wicked- 
ness. But  it  seems  to  be  useless  to  try.  I  say 
things  that  ought  to  raise  the  roof,  both  to  you  here 
and  to  Olive  at  home,  and  you  tell  me  you  don't  be- 
lieve me,  and  she  tells  me  that  Mrs.  Hubbard  thinks 
me  a  saint.  I  suppose  now,  that  if  I  took  you  by 
the  button-hole  and  informed  you  confidentially  that 
I  had  stopped  long  enough  at  129  Clover  Street  to  put 
Bartley  Hubbard  quietly  out  of  the  way,  you  would  n't 
send  for  a  policeman." 

"  I  should  send  for  a  doctor,"  said  Atherton. 

"  Such  is  the  effect  of  character  !  And  yet  out  of 
the  fulness  of  the  heart,  the  mouth  speaketh.  Out 
of  the  heart  proceed  all  those  unpleasant  things 
enumerated  in  Scripture ;  but  if  you  bottle  them  up 
there,  and  keep  your  label  fresh,  it 's  all  that 's  re- 
quired ^f  you,  by  your  fellow-beings,  at  least.  What 
an  amusing  thing  morality  would  be  if  it  were  not  — > 
otherwise.  Atherton,  do  yov  believe  that  such  a  man 
as  Christ  ever  lived  ? " 

"  I  know  you  do,  Halleck,"  said  Atherton. 

"  Well,  that  depends  upon  what  you  call  me.  If 
what  I  was  —  if  my  well  Sunday-schooled  youth  —  u 
I,  I  do.  But  if  I,  poising  dubiously  on  the  momentary 
present,  between  the  past  and  future,  am  I,  I  'rn  afraid 
I  don't.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  a  fair- 
ish sort  of  faith.  I  know  that,  if  Christ  never  lived 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  409 

>n  earth,  some  One  lived  who  imagined  him,  and 
that  One  must  have  been  a  God.  The  historical  fact 
oughtn't  to  matter.  Christ  being  imagined,  can't  you 
see  what  a  comfort,  what  a  rapture,  it  must  have  been 
to  all  these  poor  souls  to  come  into  such  a  presence 
and  be  looked  through  arid  through  ?  The  relief,  the 
rest,  the  complete  exposure  of  Judgment  Day  — " 

"  Every  day  is  Judgment  Day,"  said  Atherton. 

"  Yes,  I  know  your  doctrine.  But  I  mean  the  Last 
Day.  We  ought  to  have  something  in  anticipation 
of  it,  here,  in  our  social  system.  Character  is  a  su- 
perstition, a  wretched  fetish.  Once  a  year  would  n't 
be  too  often  to  seize  upon  sinners  whose  blameless  life 
has  placed  them  above  suspicion,  and  turn  them  in- 
side out  before  the  community,  so  as  to  show  people 
how  the  smoke  of  the  Pit  had  been  quietly  blacken- 
ing their  interior.  That  would  destroy  character  as 
a  cult."  He  laughed  again.  "  Well,  this  is  n't  busi- 
ness, —  though  it  is  n't  pleasure,  either,  exactly. 
What  I  came  for  was  to  ask  you  something.  I  Ve 
finished  at  the  Law  School,  and  I  'm  just  ready  to 
begin  here  in  the  office  with  you.  Don't  you  think 
it  would  be  a  good  time  for  me  to  give  up  the  law  ? 
Wait  a  moment ! "  he  said,  arresting  in  Atherton  au 
impulse  to  speak.  "  We  will  take  the  decent  sur- 
prise, the  friendly  demur,  the  conscientious  scruple, 
for  granted.  Now,  honestly,  do  you  believe  I  've  got 
the  making  of  a  lawyer  in  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  're  very  well,  Halleck,"  Athe"*- 
ton  began. 

"  Ah,  you  're  a  lawyer !  You  won't  give  me  a 
direct  answer!" 

"  I  will  if  you  wish,"  retorted  Atherton. 

«  Well." 

"  Do  you  want  to  give  it  up  ? " 

"Yes." 

w  Then  do  it.     No  man  ever  prospered  in  it  yel 


410  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

who  wanted  to  leave  it.  And  now,  since  it 's  come 
to  this,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  really  have  thought,  all 
along.  I  Ve  thought  that,  if  your  heart  was  really 
set  on  the  law,  you  would  overcome  your  natural  dis- 
advantages for  it ;  but  if  the  time  ever  came  when 
you  were  tired  of  it,  your  chance  was  lost :  you  nevei 
would  make  a  lawyer.  The  question  is,  whether  that 
time  has  come." 

"  It  has,"  said  Halleck. 

"Then  stop,  here  and  now.  You've  wasted  two 
years'  time,  but  you  can't  get  it  back  by  throwing 
more  after  it.  I  should  n't  be  your  friend,  I  should  n't 
be  an  honest  man,  if  I  let  you  go  on  with  me,  after 
this.  A  bad  lawyer  is  such  a  very  bad  thing.  This 
is  n't  altogether  a  surprise  to  me,  but  it  will  be  a  blow 
to  your  father,"  he  added,  with  a  questioning  look  at 
Halleck,  after  a  moment. 

"  It  might  have  been,  if  I  had  n't  taken  the  precau- 
tion to  deaden  the  place  by  a  heavier  blow  first." 

"  Ah !  you  Ve  spoken  to  him  already  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  Ve  had  it  out  in  a  sneaking,  hypothetical 
way.  But  I  could  see  that,  so  far  as  the  law  was  con- 
cerned it  was  enough ;  it  served.  Not  that  he 's  con- 
sented to  the  other  thing ;  there 's  where  I  shall  need 
your  help,  Atherton.  I  '11  tell  you  what  my  plan  is." 
He  stated  it  bluntly  at  first ;  and  then  went  over  the 
ground  and  explained  it  fully,  as  he  had  done  at  home. 
Atherton  listened  without  permitting  any  sign  of  sur- 
prise to  escape  him ;  but  he  listened  with  increasing 
gravity,  as  if  he  heard  something  not  expressed  in 
Halleck's  slow,  somewhat  nasal  monotone,  and  at  the 
end  he  said,  "  I  approve  of  any  plan  that  will  take 
you  away  for  a  while.  Yes,  I  '11  speak  to  your  father 
about  it." 

"If  you  think  you  need  any  conviction,  I  could 
use  arguments  to  bring  it  about  in  you,"  said  Halleck, 
in  recognition  of  his  friend's  ready  concurrence. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  411 

*  No,  I  don't  need  any  arguments  to  convince  me, 
I  believe,"  returned  Atherton. 

"Then  I  wish  you'd  say  something  to  bring  me 
round !  Unless  argument  is  used  by  somebody,  the 
plan  always  produces  a  cold  chill  in  me."  Halleck 
smiled,  but  Atherton  kept  a  sober  face.  "I  wish  my 
Spanish  American  was  here  !  What  makes  you  think 
it's  a  good  plan  ?  Why  should  I  disappoint  my  father's 
hopes  again,  and  wring  my  mother's  heart  by  propos- 
ing to  leave  them  for  any  such  uncertain  good  as  this 
scheme  promises?"  He  still  challenged  his  friend 
with  a  jesting  air,  but  a  deeper  and  stronger  feeling  of 
some  sort  trembled  in  his  voice. 

Atherton  would  not  reply  to  his  emotion ;  he  an- 
swered, with  obvious  evasion  •.  "  It 's  a  good  cause ;  in 
some  sort  —  the  best  sort  —  it 's  a  missionary  work.'* 

"  That 's  what  my  mother  said  to  me." 

"  And  the  change  will  be  good  for  your  health." 

"  That's  what  I  said  to  my  mother !  " 

Atherton  remained  silent,  waiting  apparently  fox 
Halleck  to  continue,  or  to  end  the  matter  there,  as  ha 
chose. 

It  was  some  moments  before  Halleck  went  on: 
"  You  would  say,  would  n't  you,  that  my  first  duty 
was  to  my  own  undertakings,  and  to  those  who  had  a 
right  to  expect  their  fulfilment  from  me  ?  You  would 
say  that  it  was  an  enormity  to  tear  myself  away  from 
the  affection  that  clings  to  me  in  that  home  of  mine, 
yonder,  and  that  nothing  but  some  supreme  motive, 
could  justify  me  ?  And  yet  you  pretend  to  be  satis- 
fied with  the  reasons  I  Ve  given  you.  You  're  not 
dealing  honestly  with  me,  Atherton  ! " 

"  No,"  said  Atherton,  keeping  the  same  scrutiny  of 
Halleck's  face  which  he  had  bent  upon  him  throughout, 
but  seeming  now  to  hear  his  thoughts  rather  than  his 
words.  "  I  knew  that  you  would  have  some  supreme 
motive ;  and  if  I  have  pretended  to  approve  youi 


412  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

scheme  on  the  reasons  you  have  given  me,  I  have  n't 
dealt  honestly  with  you.  But  perhaps  a  little  dishon- 
esty is  the  best  thing  under  the  circumstances.  You 
have  n't  told  me  your  real  motive,  and  I  can't  ask  it " 

"  But  you  imagine  it  ? " 

«  Yes." 

"  And  what  do  you  imagine  ?  That  I  have  been 
disappointed  in  love  ?  That  I  have  been  rejected  ? 
That  the  girl  who  had  accepted  me  has  broken  her 
engagement  ?  Something  of  that  sort  ? "  demanded 
Halleck,  scornfully. 

Atherton  did  not  answer. 

"  Oh,  how  far  you  are  from  the  truth  !  How  blest 
and  proud  and  happy  I  should  be  if  it  were  the 
truth  ! "  He  looked  into  his  friend's  eyes,  and  added 
bitterly :  "  You  're  not  curious,  Atherton  ;  you  don't 
ask  me  what  my  trouble  really  is  !  Do  you  wish  me 
to  tell  you  what  it  is  without  asking  ?  " 

Atherton  kept  turning  a  pencil  end  for  end  between 
his  fingers,  while  a  compassionate  smile  slightly 
curved  his  lips.  "No,"  he  said,  finally,  "  I  think  you 
had  better  not  tell  me  your  trouble.  I  can  believe 
very  well  without  knowing  it  that  it 's  serious  —  " 

"Oh,  tragic  !  "  said  Halleck,  self-contemptuously. 

"  But  I  doubt  if  it  would  help  you  to  tell  it.  I  've 
too  much  respect  for  your  good  sense  to  suppose  that 
it 's  an  unreality ;  and  I  suspect  that  confession  would 
only  weaken  you.  If  you  told  me,  you  would  feel 
that  you  had  made  me  a  partner  in  your  responsibility, 
and  you  would  be  tempted  to  leave  the  struggle  to 
me.  If  you're  battling  with  some  temptation,  some 
self-betrayal,  you  must  make  the  fight  alone:  you 
would  only  turn  to  an  ally  to  be  flattered  into  dis- 
belief of  your  danger  or  your  culpability." 

Halleck  assented  with  a  slight  nod  to  each  point 
that  the  lawyer  made.  "  You  're  right,"  he  said,  "  but 
a  man  of  your  subtlety  can't  pretend  that  he  does  n't 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  413 

know  what  the  trouble  is  in  such  a  simple  case  as 
mine." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  certainly,"  returned  Ath- 
erton,  "  and  as  far  as  I  can  I  refuse  to  imagine  any- 
thing. If  your  trouble  concerns  some  one  besides 
yourself,  —  and  no  great  trouble  can  concern  one  man 
alone,  —  you  've  no  right  to  tell  it." 

"Another  Daniel  come  to  judgment ! " 

"  You  must  trust  to  your  principles,  your  self-re- 
spect, to  keep  you  right  —  " 

Halleck  burst  into  a  harsh  laugh,  and  rose  from  his 
chair :  "  Ah,  there  you  abdicate  the  judicial  function ! 
Principles,  self-respect !  Against  that  ?  Don't  you 
suppose  I  was  approached  through  my  principles  and 
self-respect  ?  Why,  the  Devil  always  takes  a  man  on 
the  very  highest  plane.  He  knows  all  about  our 
principles  and  self-respect,  and  what  they  're  made  of. 
How  the  noblest  and  purest  attributes  of  our  na- 
ture, with  which  we  trap  each  other  so  easily,  must 
amuse  him  !  Pity,  rectitude,  moral  indignation,  a 
blameless  life,  —  he  knows  that  they  're  all  instru- 
ments for  him.  No,  sir !  No  more  principles  and 
self-respect  for  me,  —  I  Ve  had  enough  of  them ; 
there 's  nothing  for  me  but  to  run,  and  that 's  what 
I  'm  going  to  do.  But  you  're  quite  right  about  the 
other  thing,  Atherton,  and  I  give  you  a  beggar's 
thanks  for  telling  me  that  my  trouble  is  n't  mine  alone, 
and  I  Ve  no  right  to  confide  it  to  you.  It  is  mine 
in  the  sense  that  no  other  soul  is  defiled  with  the 
knowledge  of  it,  and  I  'm  glad  you  saved  me  from  the 
ghastly  profanation,  the  sacrilege,  of  telling  it.  I  was 
sneaking  round  for  your  sympathy  ;  I  did  want  some- 
how to  shift  the  responsibility  on  to  you ;  to  get  you  — 
God  help  me  !  —  to  flatter  me  out  of  my  wholesome 
fear  and  contempt  of  myself.  Well !  That 's  past, 
now,  and  —  Good  night !  H  He  abruptly  turned 
away  from  Atherton  and  swung  himself  on  his  cane 
toward  the  door. 


414  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

Atherton  took  up  his  hat  and  coat.  "Ill  walll 
home  with  you,"  he  said. 

"  All  right,"  returned  Halleck,  listlessly. 

"  How  soon  shall  you  go  ? "  asked  the  lawyer,  when 
they  were  in  the  street. 

"  Oh,  there  's  a  ship  sailing  from  New  York  next 
week,"  said  Halleck,  in  the  same  tone  of  weary  in- 
difference. "  I  shall  go  in  that." 

They  talked  desultorily  of  other  things. 

When  they  came  to  the  foot  of  Clover  Street,  Hal- 
leck plucked  his  hand  out  of  Atherton's  arm.  "  I  'm 
going  up  through  here ! "  he  said,  with  sullen  obsti- 
nacy. 

"  Better  not,"  returned  his  friend,  quietly. 

"  Will  it  hurt  her  if  I  stop  to  look  at  the  outside  of 
the  house  where  she  lives  ?  " 

"  It  will  hurt  you,"  said  Atherton. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  spare  myself ! "  retorted  Halleck. 
He  shook  off  the  touch  that  Atherton  had  laid  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  started  up  the  hill ;  the  other  over- 
took him,  and,  like  a  man  who  has  attempted  to  rule 
a  drunkard  by  thwarting  his  freak,  and  then  hopes  to 
accomplish  his  end  by  humoring  it,  he  passed  his  arm 
through  Halleck's  again,  and  went  with  him.  But 
when  they  came  to  the  house,  Halleck  did  not  stop ; 
he  did  not  even  look  at  it ;  but  Atherton  felt  the  deep 
shudder  that  passed  through  him. 

In  the  week  that  followed,  they  met  daily,  and  Hal- 
leck's broken  pride  no  longer  stayed  him  from  the 
shame  of  open  self-pity  and  wavering  purpose.  Ather- 
ton found  it  easier  to  persuade  the  clinging  reluctance 
of  the  father  and  mother,  than  to  keep  Halleck's  reso- 
lution for  him :  Halleck  could  no  longer  keep  it  for 
himself.  "  Not  much  like  the  behavior  of  people  we 
read  of  in  similar  circumstances,"  he  said  once. 
"  They  never  falter  when  they  see  the  path  of  duty  : 
they  push  forward  without  looking  to  either  hand ;  01 


A  MODEKN  INSTANCE.  415 

,"  he  added,  with  a  hollow  laugh  at  his  own  sat- 
ire, "  they  turn  their  backs  on  it,  —  like  men  !  Well ! " 

He  grew  gaunt  and  visibly  feeble.  In  this  struggle 
the  two  men  changed  places.  The  plan  for  Halleck's 
flight  was  no  longer  his  own,  but  Atherton's;  and 
when  he  did  not  rebel  against  it,  he  only  passively 
acquiesced.  The  decent  pretence  of  ignorance  on  Ath- 
erton's part  necessarily  disappeared  :  in  all  but  words 
the  trouble  stood  openly  confessed  between  them,  and 
it  came  to  Atherton's  saying,  in  one  of  Halleck's  lapses 
of  purpose,  from  which  it  had  required  all  the  other's 
strength  to  lift  him :  "  Don't  come  to  me  any  more, 
Halleck,  with  the  hope  that  I  shall  somehow  justify 
your  evil  against  your  good.  I  pitied  you  at  first; 
but  I  blame  you  now." 

'•  You  're  atrocious,"  said  Halleck,  with  a  puzzled, 
baffled  look.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  you  secretly  think  you  have  some- 
how come  by  your  evil  virtuously ;  and  you  want  me 
to  persuade  you  that  it  is  different  from  other  evils  of 
exactly  the  same  kind, —  that  it  is  beautiful  and  sweet 
and  pitiable,  and  not  ugly  as  hell  and  bitter  as  death, 
to  be  torn  out  of  you  mercilessly  and  flung  from  you 
with  abhorrence.  Well,  I  tell  you  that  you  are  suf- 
fering guiltily,  for  no  man  suffers  innocently  from 
such  a  cause.  You  must  go,  and  you  can't  go  too  soon. 
Don't  suppose  that  I  find  anything  noble  in  your  po- 
sition. I  should  do  you  a  great  wrong  if  I  did  n't  do 
all  I  could  to  help  you  realize  that  you  're  in  disgrace, 
and  that  you  're  only  making  a  choice  of  shames  in 
running  away.  Suppose  the  truth  was  known, —  sup- 
pose that  those  who  hold  you  dear  could  be  persuaded 
of  it,  —  could  you  hold  up  your  head  ? " 

"  Do  I  hold  up  my  head  as  it  is  ? "  asked  Halleck. 
"  Did  you  ever  see  a  more  abject  dog  than  I  am  at 
this  moment  ?  Your  wounds  are  faithful,  Atherton  ; 
but  perhaps  you  might  have  spared  me  this  last  stab 


416  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

If  you  want  to  know,  I  can  assure  you  that  I  donl 
feel  any  melodramatic  vainglory.  I  know  that  I  'm 
running  away  because  I  'm  beaten,  but  no  other  man 
can  know  the  battle  I  've  fought.  Don't  you  suppose 
I  know  how  hideous  this  thing  is  ?  No  one  else 
can  know  it  in  all  its  ugliness  ! "  He  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands.  "  You  are  right,"  he  said,  when  he 
could  find  his  voice.  "  I  suffer  guiltily.  I  must  have 
known  it  when  I  seemed  to  be  suffering  for  pity's 
sake ;  I  knew  it  before,  and  when  you  said  that  love 
without  marriage  was  a  worse  hell  than  any  marriage 
without  love,  you  left  me  without  refuge :  I  had  been 
trying  not  to  face  the  truth,  but  I  had  to  face  it  then. 
I  came  away  in  hell,  and  I  have  lived  in  hell  ever 
since.  I  had  tried  to  think  it  was  a  crazy  fancy,  and 
put  it  on  my  failing  health  ;  I  used  to  make  believe 
that  some  morning  I  should  wake  and  find  the  illu- 
sion gone.  I  abhorred  it  from  the  beginning  as  I  do 
now ;  it  has  been  torment  to  me  ;  and  yet  somewhere 
in  my  lost  soul  —  the  blackest  depth,  I  dare  say!  — 
this  shame  has  been  so  sweet,  — it  is  so  sweet, —  the 
one  sweetness  of  life — Ah  !"  He  dashed  the  weak 
tears  from  his  eyes,  and  rose  and  buttoned  his  coat 
about  him.  "  Well,  I  shall  go.  And  I  hope  I  shall 
never  come  back.  Though  you  need  n't  mention  thia 
to  my  father  as  an  argument  for  my  going  when  you 
talk  me  over  with  him,"  he  added,  with  a  glimmer 
vt  nis  wonted  irony.  He  waited  a  moment,  and  then 
turned  upon  his  friend,  in  sad  upbraiding :  "  When  I 
came  to  you  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  after  I  had  taken 
that  ruffian  home  drunk  to  her  —  Why  did  n't  you 
warn  me  then,  Atherton  ?  Did  you  see  any  danger  ? " 
Atherton  hesitated  :  "  I  knew  that,  with  your  habit 
of  suffering  for  other  people,  it  would  make  you  mis- 
erable ;  but  I  could  n't  have  dreamed  this  would  come 
of  it.  But  you  've  never  been  out  of  your  own  keep- 
ing for  a  moment.  You  are  responsible,  and  you  are 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.,  417 

to  blame  if  you  are  suffering  now,  and  can  find  no 
safety  for  yourself  but  in  running  away." 

"  That 's  true,"  said  Halleck,  very  humbly,  "  and  I 
yon't  trouble  you  any  more.  I  can't  go  on  sinning 
against  her  belief  in  me  here,  and  live.  I  shall  go 
on  sinning  against  it  there,  as  long  as  I  live ;  but  it 
seerns  to  me  the  harm  will  be  a  little  less.  Yes,  I 
will  go." 

But  the  night  before  he  went,  he  came  to  Ather- 
ton's  lodging  to  tell  him  that  he  should  not  go; 
Atherton  was  not  at  home,  and  Halleck  was  spared 
this  last  dishonor.  He  returned  to  his  father's  house 
through  the  rain  that  was  beginning  to  fall  lightly, 
and  as  he  let  himself  in  with  his  key  Olive's  voice 
said,  "  It 's  Ben  ! "  and  at  the  same  time  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  arm  with  a  nervous,  warning  clutch. 
"  Hush  !  Come  in  here !  "  She  drew  him  from 
the  dimly  lighted  hall  into  the  little  reception-room 
near  the  door.  The  gas  was  burning  brighter  there, 
arid  in  the  light  he  saw  Marcia  white  and  still,  where 
she  sat  holding  her  baby  in  her  arms.  They  ex- 
changed no  greeting :  it  was  apparent  that  her  being 
there  transcended  all  usage,  and  that  they  need  ob- 
serve none. 

•'Ben  will  go  home  with  you,"  said  Olive,  sooth- 
ingly. "  Is  it  raining  ? "  she  asked,  looking  at  her 
brother's  coat.  "  I  will  get  my  water-proof." 

She  left  them  a  moment.     "I  have  been  —  been 
walking  —  walking  about,"  Marcia  panted.     "  It  has 
got  so  dark  —  I  'm  —  afraid  to  go  home.    I  hate  to  — 
take  you  from  them  —  the  last  —  night." 

Halleck  answered  nothing ;  he  sat  staring  at  her 
till  Olive  came  back  with  the  water-proof  and  an  um- 
brella. Then,  while  his  sister  was  putting  the  water 
proof  over  Marcia's  shoulders,  he  said,  "  Let  me  take 
the  little  one,"  and  gathered  it,  with  or  without  hex 
consent,  from  her  arms  into  his.  The  baby  was  sleep 

27 


418  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

ing ;  it  nestled  warmly  against  him  with  a  luxurious 
quiver  under  the  shawl  that  Olive  threw  round  it. 
"  You  can  carry  the  umbrella,"  he  said  to  Marcia. 

They  walked  fast,  when  they  got  out  into  the  rainy 
dark,  and  it  was  hard  to  shelter  Halleck  as  he  limped 
rapidly  on.  Marcia  ran  forward  once,  to  see  if  hei 
baby  were  safely  kept  from  the  wet,  and  found  thai 
Halleck  had  its  little  face  pressed  close  between  his 
neck  and  cheek.  "  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said.  "  I  'm 
looking  out  for  it." 

His  voice  sounded  broken  and  strange,  and  neither 
of  them  spoke  again  till  they  came  in  sight  of 
Marcia's  door.  Then  she  tried  to  stop  him.  She 
put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Oh,  I  'm  afraid  — - 
afraid  to  go  in,"  she  pleaded. 

He  halted,  and  they  stood  confronted  in  the  light 
of  a  street  lamp  ;  her  face  was  twisted  with  weeping. 
"  Why  are  you  afraid  ? "  he  demanded,  harshly. 

"  We  had  a  quarrel,  and  I  —  I  ran  away  —  I  said 
that  I  would  never  come  back.  I  left  him  —  " 

"  You  must  go  back  to  him,"  said  Halleck.  "  He 's 
your  husband  ! "  He  pushed  on  again,  saying  over 
and  over,  as  if  the  words  were  some  spell  in  which 
he  found  safety,  "You  must  go  back,  you  must  go 
back,  you  must  go  back  ! " 

He  dragged  her  with  him  now,  for  she  hung  help- 
less on  his  arm,  which  she  had  seized,  and  moaned  to 
herself.  At  the  threshold,  "  I  can't  go  in ! "  she  broke 
out.  "  I  'm  afraid  to  go  in !  What  will  he  say  ? 
What  will  he  do  ?  Oh,  come  in  with  me !  You  are 
good,  —  and  then  I  shall  not  be  afraid  ! " 

"You  must  go  in  alone!  No  man  can  be  your 
refuge  from  your  husband  !  Here  ! "  He  released 
himself,  and,  kissing  the  warm  little  face  of  the  sleep- 
ing child,  he  pressed  it  into  her  arms.  His  fingers 
touched  hers  under  the  shawl ;  he  tore  his  hand  away 
with  a  shiver. 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  413 

She  stood  a  moment  looking  at  the  closed  door; 
fchen  she  flung  it  open,  and,  pausing  as  if  to  gathei 
her  strength,  vanished  into  the  brightness  within. 

He  turned,  and  ran  crookedly  down  the  street, 
wavering  from  side  to  side  in  his  lameness,  and  fling- 
ing up  his  arms  to  save  himself  from  falling  as  he 
ran,  with  a  gesture  that  was  like  a  wild  and  hopeless 
appeal 


420  A  MODEEN  INSTANCE. 


xxxrv. 

MARCIA  pushed  into  the  room  where  she  had  left 
Bartley.  She  had  no  escape  from  her  fate ;  she  must 
meet  it,  whatever  it  was.  The  room  was  empty,  and 
she  began  doggedly  to  search  the  house  for  him,  up 
stairs  and  down,  carrying  the  child  with  her.  She 
would  not  have  been  afraid  now  to  call  him ;  but  she 
had  no  voice,  and  she  could  not  ask  the  servant  any- 
thing when  she  looked  into  the  kitchen.  She  saw  the 
traces  of  the  meal  he  had  made  in  the  dining-room, 
and  when  she  went  a  second  time  to  their  chamber  to 
lay  the  little  girl  down  in  her  crib,  she  saw  the  draw- 
ers pulled  open,  and  the  things  as  he  had  tossed  them 
about  in  packing  his  bag.  She  looked  at  the  clock 
on  the  mantel  —  an  extravagance  of  Bartley's,  for 
which  she  had  scolded  him  —  and  it  was  only  half 
past  eight ;  she  had  thought  it  must  be  midnight. 

She  sat  all  night  in  a  chair  beside  the  bed ;  in  the 
morning  she  drowsed  and  dreamed  that  she  was  weep- 
ing on  Bartley's  shoulder,  and  he  was  joking  her  and 
trying  to  comfort  her,  as  he  used  to  do  when  they 
were  first  married ;  but  it  was  the  little  girl,  sitting  up 
in  her  crib,  arid  crying  loudly  for  her  breakfast.  She 
put  on  the  child  a  pretty  frock  that  Bartley  liked,  and 
when  she  had  dressed  her  own  tumbled  hair  she  went 
down  stairs,  feigning  to  herself  that  they  should  find 
him  in  the  parlor.  The  servant  was  setting  the  table 
for  breakfast,  and  the  little  one  ran  forward :  "  Baby's 
chair ;  mamma's  chair ;  papa's  chair  ! " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Marcia,  so  that  the  servant  mighl 
hear  too,  "  Papa  will  soon  be  home." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  421 

She  persuaded  herself  that  he  had  gone  as  before 
for  the  night,  and  in  this  pretence  she  talked  with 
the  child  at  the  table,  and  she  put  aside  some  of  the 
breakfast  to  be  kept  warm  for  Bartley.  "I  don't 
know  just  when  he  may  be  in,"  she  explained  to  the 
girl.  The  utterance  of  her  pretence  that  she  expected 
him  encouraged  her,  and  she  went  about  her  work 
almost  cheerfully. 

At  dinner  she  said,  "  Mr.  Hubbard  must  have  been 
called  away,  somewhere.  We  must  get  his  dinner  for 
him  when  he  comes :  the  things  dry  up  so  in  the  oven." 

She  put  Flavia  to  bed  early,  and  then  trimmed  the 
fire,  and  made  the  parlor  cosey  against  Bartley's  com- 
ing. She  did  not  blame  him  for  staying  away  the 
night  before ;  it  was  a  just  punishment  for  her  wick- 
edness, and  she  should  tell  him  so,  and  tell  him  that 
she  knew  he  never  was  to  blame  for  anything  about 
Hannah  Morrison.  She  enacted  over  and  over  in  her 
mind  the  scene  of  their  reconciliation.  In  every  step 
on  the  pavement  he  approached  the  door ;  at  last  all 
the  steps  died  away,  and  the  second  night  passed. 

Her  head  was  light,  and  her  brain  confused  with 
loss  of  sleep.  When  the  child  called  her  from  above, 
?nd  woke  her  out  of  her  morning  drowse,  she  went  to 
the  kitchen  and  begged  the  servant  to  give  the  little 
one  its  breakfast,  saying  that  she  was  sick  and  wanted 
nothing  herself.  She  did  not  say  anything  about 
Bartley's  breakfast,  and  she  would  not  think  anything; 
the  girl  took  the  child  into  the  kitchen  with  her,  and 
kept  it  there  all  day. 

Olive  Halleck  came  during  the  forenoon,  and  Marcia 
told  her  that  Bartley  had  been  unexpectedly  called 
away.  "  To  New  York,"  she  added,  without  knowing 
why. 

*  Ben  sailed  from  there  to-day,"  said  Olive  sadly. 

"Yes,"  assented  Marcia. 

"  We  want  you  to  come  and  take  tea  with  us  tiiia 
evening,"  Olive  bejjan. 


422  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  Oh,  I  can't,"  Marcia  broke  in.  "  I  must  n't  be 
away  when  Bartley  gets  back."  The  thought  was 
something  definite  in  the  sea  of  uncertainty  on  which 
she  was  cast  away ;  she  never  afterwards  lost  her  hold 
of  it ;  she  confirmed  herself  in  it  by  other  inventions; 
she  pretended  that  he  had  told  her  where  he  was  go* 
ing,  and  then  that  he  had  written  to  her.  She  almost 
believed  these  childish  fictions  as  she  uttered  them. 
At  the  same  time,  in  all  her  longing  for  his  return, 
she  had  a  sickening  fear  that  when  he  came  back 
he  would  keep  his  parting  threat  and  drive  her  away : 
she  did  not  know  how  he  could  do  it,  but  this  was 
what  she  feared. 

She  seldom  left  the  house,  which  at  first  she  kept 
neat  and  pretty,  and  then  let  fall  into  slatternly  ne- 
glect. She  ceased  to  care  for  her  dress  or  the  child's; 
the  time  came  when  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  scarcely 
move  in  the  mystery  that  beset  her  life,  and  she 
yielded  to  a  deadly  lethargy  which  paralyzed  all  her 
faculties  but  the  instinct  of  concealment. 

She  repelled  the  kindly  approaches  of  the  Hallecks, 
sometimes  sending  word  to  the  door  when  they  came, 
that  she  was  sick  and  could  not  see  them  ;  or  when 
she  saw  any  of  them,  repeating  those  hopeless  lies 
concerning  Bartley's  whereabouts,  and  her  expecta- 
tions of  his  return. 

For  the  time  she  was  safe  against  all  kindly  mis- 
givings ;  but  there  were  some  of  Bartley's  creditors 
who  grew  impatient  of  his  long  absence,  and  refused 
to  be  satisfied  with  her  fables.  She  had  a  few  dollars 
left  from  some  money  that  her  father  had  given  her 
at  home,  and  she  paid  these  all  out  upon  the  demand 
of  the  first-comer.  Afterwards,  as  other  bills  were 
pressed,  she  could  only  answer  with  incoherent  prom- 
ises and  evasions  that  scarcely  served  for  the  mo» 
ment.  The  pursuit  of  these  people  dismayed  her. 
Hi  was  nothing  that  certain  of  them  refused  furthei 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  423 

credit ;  she  would  have  known,  both  for  herself  and 
her  child,  how  to  go  hungry  and  cold ;  but  there  was 
one  of  them  who  threatened  her  with  the  law  if  she 
did  not  pay.  She  did  not  know  what  he  could  do ; 
she  had  read  somewhere  that  people  who  did  not  pay 
their  debts  were  imprisoned,  and  if  that  disgrace 
were  all  she  would  not  care.  But  if  the  law  were 
enforced  against  her,  the  truth  would  come  out ;  she 
would  be  put  to  shame  before  the  world  as  a  deserted 
wife ;  and  this  when  Bartley  had  not  deserted  her. 
The  pride  that  had  bidden  her  heart  break  in  secret 
rather  than  suffer  this  shame  even  before  itself,  was 
baffled :  her  one  blind  device  had  been  concealment, 
arid  this  poor  refuge  was  possible  no  longer.  If  all 
were  not  to  know,  some  one  must  know. 

The  law  with  which  she  had  been  threatened 
might  be  instant  in  its  operation ;  she  could  not  tell. 
Her  mind  wavered  from  fear  to  fear.  Even  while 
the  man  stood  before  her,  she  perceived  the  necessity 
that  was  upon  her,  and  when  he  left  her  she  would 
not  allow  herself  a  moment's  delay. 

She  reached  the  Events  building,  in  which  Mr. 
Atherton  had  his  office,  just  as  a  lady  drove  away  in 
her  coupe*.  It  was  Miss  Kingsbury,  who  made  i 
point  of  transacting  all  business  matters  with  her 
lawyer  at  his  office,  and  of  keeping  her  social  rela- 
tions with  him  entirely  distinct,  as  she  fancied,  by 
this  means.  She  was  only  partially  successful,  but 
at  least  she  never  talked  business  with  him  at  hei- 
house,  and  doubtless  she  would  not  have  talked  any- 
thing else  with  him  at  his  office,  but  for  that  increas- 
ing dependence  upon  him  in  everything  which  she 
certainly  would  not  have  permitted  herself  if  she 
had  realized  it.  As  it  was,  she  had  now  come  to 
him  in  a  state  of  nervous  exaltation,  which  was  not 
business-like.  She  had  been  greatly  shocked  by 
Ben  Halleck's  sudden  freak ;  she  had  sympathized 


424  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

with  his  family  till  she  herself  felt  the  need  of  some 
sort  of  condolence,  and  she  had  promised  herself  this 
consolation  from  Atherton's  habitual  serenity.  She 
did  not  know  what  to  do  when  he  received  her  with 
what  she  considered  an  impatient  manner,  and  did 
not  seem  at  all  glad  to  see  her.  There  was  no  reason 
why  he  should  be  glad  to  see  a  lady  calling  on  business, 
and  no  doubt  he  often  found  her  troublesome,  but  he 
had  never  shown  it  before.  She  felt  like  crying  at 
first;  then  she  passed  through  an  epoch  of  resent- 
ment, and  then  through  a  period  of  compassion  for 
him.  She  ended  by  telling  him  with  dignified  sever- 
ity that  she  wanted  some  money  :  they  usually  made 
some  jokes  about  her  destitution  when  she  came  upon 
that  errand.  He  looked  surprised  and  vexed,  and  "  I 
have  spent  what  you  gave  me  last  month,"  she 
explained. 

"  Then  you  wish  to  anticipate  the  interest  on  your 
bonds?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Clara,  rather  sharply.  "  I 
wish  to  have  the  interest  up  to  the  present  time." 

"  But  I  told  you,"  said  Atherton,  and  he  could  not, 
in  spite  of  himself,  help  treating  her  somewhat  as  a 
child,  "  I  told  you  then  that  I  was  paying  you  the 
interest  up  to  the  first  of  November.  There  is  none 
due  now.  Did  n't  you  understand  that '?  " 

"  No,  I  did  n't  understand,"  answered  Clara.  She 
allowed  herself  to  add,  "  It  is  very  strange  !  "  Ather- 
ton struggled  with  his  irritation,  and  made  no  reply. 
"  I  can't  be  left  without  money,"  she  continued. 
"  What  am  I  to  do  without  it  ? "  she  demanded  with 
an  air  of  unanswerable  argument.  "Why,  I  must 
have  it!" 

"  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  understand  you  fully,"  said 
Atherton,  with  cold  politeness.  "  It 's  only  necessary 
to  know  what  sum  you  require." 

Clara  flung  up  her  veil  and  confronted  him  with  an 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  425 

excited  face.  "  Mr.  Atherton,  I  don't  wish  a  loan ; 
I  can't  permit  it ;  and  you  know  that  my  principles 
are  entirely  against  anticipating  interest." 

Atherton,  from  stooping  over  his  table,  pencil  in 
hand,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  looked  at  her  with 
a  smile  that  provoked  her :  "  Then  may  I  ask  what 
you  wish  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  No  !  I  can't  instruct  you.  My  affairs  are  in 
your  hands.  But  I  must  say  — "  She  bit  her  lip, 
however,  and  did  not  say  it.  On  the  contrary  she 
asked,  rather  feebly,  "  Is  there  nothing  due  on 
anything  ? " 

"  I  went  over  it  with  you,  last  month,"  said  Ather- 
ton patiently,  "  and  explained  all  the  investments.  I 
could  sell  some  stocks,  but  this  election  trouble  has 
disordered  everything,  and  I  should  have  to  sell  at  a 
heavy  loss.  There  are  your  mortgages,  and  there  are 
your  bonds.  You  can  have  any  amount  of  money 
you  want,  but  you  will  have  to  borrow  it." 

"  And  that  you  know  I  won't  do.  There  should 
always  be  a  sum  of  money  in  the  bank,"  said  Clara 
decidedly. 

"  I  do  my  very  best  to  keep  a  sum  there,  knowing 
your  theory  ;  but  your  practice  is  against  me.  You 
draw  too  many  checks,"  said  Atherton,  laughing. 

"  Very  well ! "  cried  the  lady,  pulling  down  her 
veil.  "  Then  I  'm  to  have  nothing  ? " 

"You  won't  allow  yourself  to  have  anything," 
Atherton  began.  But  she  interrupted  him  haughtily. 

"  It  is  certainly  very  odd  that  my  affairs  should  be 
in  such  a  state  that  I  can't  have  all  the  money  of  my 
own  that  I  want,  whenever  I  want  it." 

Atherton's  thin  face  paled  a  little  more  than  usual 
"  I  shall  be  glad  to  resign  the  charge  of  your  affairs 
Miss  Kingsbury." 

"  And  I  shall  accept  your  resignation,"  cried  Clara, 
magnificently,  "  whenever  you  offer  it."  She  swept 


426  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

out  of  the  office,  and  descended  to  her  coupe*  like  an 
incensed  goddess.  She  drew  the  curtains  and  began 
to  cry.  At  her  door,  she  bade  the  servant  deny  her 
to  everybody,  and  went  to  bed,  where  she  was  visited 
a  little  later  by  Olive  Halleck,  whom  no  ban  ex- 
cluded. Clara  lavishly  confessed  her  sin  and  sorrow. 
"  Why,  I  went  there,  more  than  half,  to  sympathize 
with  him  about  Ben ;  I  don't  need  any  money,  just 
yet ;  and  the  first  thing  I  knew,  I  was  accusing  him 
of  neglecting  my  interests,  and  I  don't  know  what 
all !  Of  course  he  had  to  say  he  would  n't  have  any- 
thing more  to  do  with  them,  and  I  should  have  de- 
spised him  if  he  had  n't.  And  now  I  don't  care  what 
becomes  of  the  property:  it's  never  been  anything 
but  misery  to  me  ever  since  I  had  it,  and  I  always 
knew  it  would  get  me  into  trouble  sooner  or  later." 
She  whirled  her  face  over  into  her  pillow,  and  sobbed, 
"  But  I  did  n't  suppose  it  would  ever  make  me  insult 
and  outrage  the  best  friend  I  ever  had,  —  and  the 
truest  man,  —  and  the  noblest  gentleman  !  Oh,  what 
will  he  think  of  me  ?  " 

Olive  remained  sadly  quiet,  as  if  but  superficially 
interested  in  these  transports,  and  Clara  lifted  her  face 
again  to  say  in  her  handkerchief,  "  It 's  a  shame, 
Olive,  to  burden:  you  with  all  this  at  a  time  when 
you  've  care  enough  of  your  own." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  rather  glad  of  somebody  else's  care ;  it 
helps  to  take  my  mind  off,"  said  Olive. 

"  Then  what  would  you  do  ? "  asked  Clara,  tempted 
by  the  apparent  sympathy  with  her  in  the  effect  of 
her  naughtiness. 

"  You  might  make  a  party  for  him,  Clara,"  sug- 
gested Olive,  with  lack-lustre  irony. 

Clara  gave  way  to  a  loud  burst  of  grief.  "  Oh, 
Olive  Halleck!  I  didn't  suppose  you  could  be  SQ 
cruel!" 

Olive  rose  impatiently.     "  Then  write  to  him/or  go 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  427 

to  him  and  tell  him  that  you  're  ashamed  of  yourself 
and  ask  him  to  take  your  property  back  again." 

"  Never ! "  cried  Clara,  who  had  listened  with  fas- 
jination.  "  What  would  he  think  of  me  ? " 

"  Why  need  you  care  ?  It 's  purely  a  matter  of 
business ! " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  need  n't  mind  what  he  thinks. " 

"  Of  course,"  admitted  Clara,  thoughtfully. 

"He  will  naturally  despise  you,"  added  Olive, 
"  but  I  suppose  he  does  that,  now." 

Clara  gave  her  friend  as  piercing  a  glance  as  her 
soft  blue  eyes  could  emit,  and,  detecting  no  sign  of 
jesting  in  Olive's  sober  face,  she  answered  haughtily, 
"  I  don't  see  what  right  Mr.  Atherton  has  to  despise 
me!" 

"  Oh,  no  !  He  must  admire  a  girl  who  has  behaved 
to  him  as  you  've  done." 

Clara's  hauteur  collapsed,  and  she  began  to  truckle 
to  Olive.  "  If  he  were  merely  a  business  man,  I 
should  n't  mind  it ;  but  knowing  him  socially,  as  I 
do.  and  as  a  —  friend,  and  —  an  acquaintance,  that 
way,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  do  it." 

"I  wonder  you  didn't  think  of  that  before  you 
accused  him  of  fraud  and  peculation,  and  all  those 
things." 

"  I  did  n't  accuse  him  of  fraud  and  peculation  1 " 
cried  Clara,  indignantly. 

"  You  said  you  did  n't  know  what  all  you  'd  called 
him,"  said  Olive,  with  her  hand  on  the  door. 

Clara  followed  her  down  stairs.  "Well,  I  shall 
never  do  it  in  the  world,"  she  said,  with  reviving 
hope  in  her  voice. 

*'  Oh,  I  don't  expect  you  to  go  to  him  this  morn- 
ing," said  Olive  dryly.  "  That  would  be  a  little  too 
barefaced." 

Her  friend  kissed  her.     "  Olive  Halleck,  you  're  the 


428  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

strangest  girl  that  ever  was.  I  do  believe  you  M  joke 
at  the  point  of  death  !  But  I  'in  so  glad  you  have 
been  perfectly  frank  with  me,  and  of  course  it 's 
worth  worlds  to  know  that  you  think  I  Ve  behaved 
horridly,  and  ought  to  make  some  reparation." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  value  my  opinion,  Clara.  And  if 
you  come  to  me  for  frankness,  you  can  always  have  all 
you  want ;  it 's  a  drug  in  the  market  with  me."  She 
meagrely  returned  Clara's  embrace,  and  left  her  in  a 
reverie  of  tactless  scheming  for  the  restoration  of 
peace  with  Mr.  Atherton. 

Marcia  came  in  upon  the  lawyer  before  he  had 
thought,  after  parting  with  Miss  Kingsbury,  to  tell 
the  clerk  in  the  outer  office  to  deny  him ;  but  she 
was  too  full  of  her  own  trouble  to  see  the  reluctance 
which  it  tasked  all  his  strength  to  quell,  and  she  sank 
into  the  nearest  chair  unbidden.  At  sight  of  her, 
Atherton  became  the  prey  of  one  of  those  fantastic 
repulsions  in  which  men  visit  upon  women  the  blame 
of  others'  thoughts  about  them :  he  censured  her  for 
Halleck's  wrong;  but  in  another  instant  he  recog- 
nized his  cruelty,  and  atoned  by  relenting  a  little  in 
his  intolerance  of  her  presence.  She  sat  gazing  at 
him  with  a  face  of  blank  misery,  to  which  he  could 
not  refuse  the  charity  of  a  prompting  question :  "  Is 
there  something  I  can  do  for  you,  Mrs.  Hubbard  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  — I  don't  know  !"  She  had  a 
folded  paper  in  her  hands,  which  lay  helpless  in  her 
lap.  After  a  moment  she  resumed,  in  a  hoarse,  low 
voice :  "  They  have  all  begun  to  come  for  their 
money,  and  this  one  —  this  one  says  he  will  have  the 
law  of  me  —  I  don't  know  what  he  means  —  if  I  don  t 
pay  him." 

Marcia  could  not  know  how  hard  Atherton  found 
it  to  govern  the  professional  suspicion  which  sprung 
up  at  the  question  of  money.  But  he  overruled  his 
suspicion  by  an  effort  that  was  another  relief  to  the 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  429 

struggle  in  which  he  was  wrenching  his  mind  from 
Miss  Kingsbury's  outrageous  behavior.  "  What  have 
you  got  there?"  he  asked  gravely,  and  not  unkindly, 
and  being  used  to  prompt  the  reluctance  of  lady 
clients,  he  put  out  his  hand  for  the  paper  she  held. 
It  was  the  bill  of  the  threatening  creditor,  for  indefi- 
nitely repeated  dozens  of  tivoli  beer. 

"  Why  do  they  come  to  you  with  this  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Hubbard  is  away." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  heard.  When  do  you  expect  him 
home  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Where  is  he  ? " 

She  looked  at  him  piteously  without  speaking. 

Atherton  stepped  to  his  door,  and  gave  the  order 
forgotten  before.  Then  he  closed  the  door,  and  came 
back  to  Marcia.  "  Don't  you  know  where  your  hus- 
band is,  Mrs.  Hubbard  ? " 

"  Oh,  he  will  come  back  !  He  could  n't  leave  me  ! 
He's  dead,  —  I  know  he's  dead;  but  he  will  come 
back  !  He  only  went  away  for  the  night,  and  some- 
thing must  have  happened  to  him." 

The  whole  tragedy  of  her  life  for  the  past  fortnight 
was  expressed  in  these  wild  and  inconsistent  words ; 
she  had  not  been  able  to  reason  beyond  the  pathetic 
absurdities  which  they  involved ;  they  had  the  effect 
of  assertions  confirmed  in  the  belief  by  incessant 
repetition,  and  doubtless  she  had  said  them  to  her- 
self a  thousand  times.  Atherton  read  in  them,  not 
only  the  confession  of  her  despair,  but  a  prayer  for 
mercy,  which  it  would  have  been  inhuman  to  deny, 
and  for  the  present  he  left  her  to  such  refuge  from 
herself  as  she  had  found  in  them.  He  said,  quietly, 
''  You  had  better  give  me  that  paper,  Mrs.  Hubbard," 
tnd  took  the  bill  from  her.  "  If  the  others  come  with 
their  accounts  again,  you  must  send  them  to  ma 
When  did  you  say  Mr.  Hubbard  left  home  ?  * 


430  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

•f  The  night  after  the  election,"  said  Marcia. 

"  And  he  did  n't  say  how  long  he  should  be  gone  ?  ' 
pursued  the  lawyer,  in  the  feint  that  she  had  known 
he  was  going. 

"  No,"  she  answered. 

"  He  took  some  things  with  him  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Perhaps  you  could  judge  how  long  he  meant  to 
be  absent  from  the  preparation  he  made  ?  " 

"  I  Ve  never  looked  to  see.     I  could  n't ! " 

Atherton  changed  the  line  of  his  inquiry.  "  Does 
any  one  else  know  of  this  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Marcia,  quickly, "  I  told  Mrs.  Halleck 
and  all  of  them  that  he  was  in  New  York,  and  I  said 
that  I  had  heard  from  him.  I  came  to  you  because  you 
were  a  lawyer,  and  you  would  not  tell  what  I  told  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Atherton. 

"  1  want  it  kept  a  secret.  Oh,  do  you  think  he 's 
dead  ? "  she  implored. 

"  No,"  returned  Atherton,  gravely,  "  I  don't  think 
he's  dead." 

"  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  I  could  bear  it  better 
if  I  knew  he  was  dead.  If  he  is  n't  dead,  he 's  out  of 
his  mind !  He 's  out  of  his  mind,  don't  you  thinly 
and  he 's  wandered  off  somewhere  ? " 

She  besought  him  so  pitifully  to  agree  with  her, 
bending  forward  and  trying  to  read  the  thoughts  in 
his  face,  that  he  could  not  help  saying,  "  Perhaps." 

A  gush  of  grateful  tears  blinded  her,  but  she  choked 
down  her  sobs. 

"  I  said  things  to  him  that  night  that  were  enough 
to  drive  him  crazy.  I  was  always  the  one  in  fault, 
but  he  was  always  the  one  to  make  up  first,  and  he 
never  would  have  gone  away  from  me  if  he  had 
known  what  he  was  doing !  But  he  will  come  back, 
I  know  he  will,"  she  said,  rising.  "  And  oh,  you  won't 
aay  anything  to  anybody,  will  you  ?  And  he  '11  get 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  431 

back  before  they  find  out.  I  will  send  those  men  to 
you,  and  Bartley  will  see  about  it  as  soon  as  he  conies 
home  —  " 

"  Don't  go,  Mrs.  Hubbard,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  I 
want  to  speak  with  you  a  little  longer."  She  dropped 
again  in  her  chair,  and  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 
"  Have  you  written  to  your  father  about  this  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered  quickly,  with  an  effect  of 
shrinking  back  into  herself. 

UI  think  you  had  better  do  so.  You  can't  tell 
when  your  husband  will  return,  and  you  can't  go  on 
in  this  way." 

" I  will  never  tell  father"  she  replied,  closing  her 
lips  inexorably. 

The  lawyer  forbore  to  penetrate  the  family  trouble 
he  divined.  "  Are  you  all  alone  in  the  house  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  The  girl  is  there.     And  the  baby." 

"  That  won't  do,  Mrs.  Hubbard,"  said  Atherton,  with 
a  compassionate  shake  of  the  head.  "  You  can't  go 
on  living  there  alone." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can.  I  'm  not  afraid  to  be  alone,"  she 
returned  with  the  air  of  having  thought  of  this. 

"  But  he  may  be  absent  some  time  yet,"  urged  the 
lawyer ;  "  he  may  be  absent  indefinitely.  You  must 
go  home  to  your  father  and  wait  for  him  there." 

"  I  can't  do  that.  He  must  find  me  here  when  he 
comes,"  she  answered  firmly. 

"  But  how  will  you  stay  ? "  pleaded  Atherton ;  he 
had  to  deal  with  an  unreasonable  creature  who  could 
not  be  driven,  and  he  must  plead.  "  You  have  no 
money,  and  how  can  you  live  ? " 

"  Oh,"  replied  Marcia,  with  the  air  of  having 
thought  of  this  too,  "  I  will  take  boarders." 

Atherton  smiled  at  the  hopeless  practicality,  and 
Bhook  his  head ;  but  he  did  not  oppose  her  directly. 
*  Mrs.  Hubbard,"  he  said  earnestly,  "  you  have  done 


|32  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

well  in  coming  to  me,  but  let  me  convince  you  that 
this  is  a  matter  which  can't  be  kept.  It  must  be 
known.  Before  you  can  begin  to  help  yourself,  you 
must  let  others  help  you.  Either  you  must  go  home 
fco  your  father  and  let  your  husband  find  you  there  —  " 

"  He  must  find  me  here,  in  our  own  house." 

"Then  you  must  tell  your  friends  here  that  you 
don't  know  where  he  is,  nor  when  he  will  return,  and 
let  them  advise  together  as  to  what  can  be  done.  You 
must  tell  the  Hallecks  —  " 

"  I  will  never  tell  them !  "  cried  Marcia.  "  Let  me 
go  !  I  can  starve  there  and  freeze,  and  if  he  finds  me 
dead  in  the  house,  none  of  them  shall  have  the  right 
to  blame  him,  —  to  say  that  he  left  me,  —  that  he  de- 
serted his  little  child !  Oh !  oh !  oh  !  oh  !  What  shall 
I  do?" 

The  hapless  creature  shook  with  the  thick-coming 
sobs  that  overpowered  her  now,  and  Atherton  re- 
frained once  more.  She  did  not  seem  ashamed  before 
him  of  the  sorrows  which  he  felt  it  a  sacrilege  to  know, 
and  in  a  blind  instinctive  way  he  perceived  that  in 
proportion  as  he  was  a  stranger  it  was  possible  for  her 
to  bear  her  disgrace  in  his  presence.  He  spoke  at 
last  from  the  hint  he  found  in  this  fact :  "  Will  yov 
let  me  mention  the  matter  to  Miss  Kingsbury  ? " 

She  looked  at  him  with  sad  intensity  in  the  eyes,  as 
if  trying  to  fathom  any  nether  thought  that  he  might 
have.  It  must  have  seemed  to  her  at  first  that  he 
was  mocking  her,  but  his  words  brought  her  the 
only  relief  from  her  self-upbraiding  she  had  known. 
To  suffer  kindness  from  Miss  Kingsbury  would  be  in 
some  sort  an  atonement  to  Bartley  for  the  wrong  her 
jealousy  had  done  him ;  it  would  be  self-sacrifice  for 
tis  sake  ;  it  would  be  expiation.  "  Yes,  tell  her,"  she 
answered  with  a  promptness  whose  obscure  motive 
was  not  illumined  by  the  flash  of  passionate  prida 
with  which  she  added,  "  I  shall  not  care  for  her." 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  433 

She  rose  again,  and  Atherton  did  not  detain  her ; 
but  when  she  had  left  him  he  lost  no  time  in  writ- 
ing to  her  father  the  facts  of  the  case  as  her  visit 
had  revealed  them.  He  spoke  of  her  reluctance  to 
have  her  situation  known  to  her  family,  but  assured 
the  Squire  that  he  need  have  no  anxiety  about  her  foi 
the  present.  He  promised  to  keep  him  fully  informed 
in  regard  to  her,  and  to  telegraph  the  first  news  of 
Mr.  Hubbard.  He  left  the  Squire  to  form  his  OWD 
conjectures,  and  to  take  whatever  action  he  thought 
best.  For  his  own  part,  he  had  no  question  that 
Hubbard  had  abandoned  his  wife,  and  had  stolen  Hal- 
leek's  money;  and  the  detectives  to  whom  he  went 
were  clear  that  it  was  a  case  of  European  travel. 


4:34  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 


XXXV. 


ATHERTON  went  from  the  detectives  to 
bury,  and  boldly  resisted  the  interdict  at  her  door, 
sending  up  his  name  with  the  message  that  he  wished 
to  see  her  immediately  on  business.  She  kept  him 
waiting  while  she  made  a  frightened  toilet,  and  leaving 
the  letter  to  him  which  she  had  begun  half  finished 
on  her  desk,  she  came  down  to  meet  him  in  a  flutter 
of  despondent  conjecture.  He  took  her  mechanically 
yielded  hand,  and  seated  himself  on  the  sofa  beside 
her.  "  I  sent  word  that  I  had  come  on  business,"  he 
said,  "  but  it  is  no  affair  of  yours,"  —  she  hardly  knew 
whether  to  feel  relieved  or  disappointed,  —  "  except 
as  you  make  all  unhappy  people's  affairs  your  own." 

"  Oh  !  "  she  murmured  in  meek  protest,  and  at  the 
same  time  she  remotely  wondered  if  these  affairs  were 
his. 

"I  came  to  you  for  help,"  he  began  again,  and 
again  she  interrupted  him  in  deprecation. 

"  You  are  very  good,  after  —  after  —  what  I  —  what 
happened,  —  I  'm  sure."  She  put  up  her  fan  to  her 
lips,  and  turned  her  head  a  little  aside.  "  Of  course 
I  shall  be  glad  to  help  you  in  anything,  Mr.  Athertou  : 
you  know  I  always  am." 

"  Yes,  and  that  gave  me  courage  to  come  to  you, 
even  after  the  way  in  which  we  parted  this  morning. 
I  knew  you  would  not  misunderstand  me  "  — 

"  No,"  said  Clara  softly,  doing  her  best  to  under' 
stand  him. 

"Or  think  me  wanting  in  delicacy  —  " 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  435 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  " 

"  If  I  believed  that  we  need  not  have  any  embar- 
rassment in  meeting  in  behalf  of  the  poor  creature 
who  came  to  see  me  just  after  you  left  me.  The  fact 
is,"  he  went  on,  "  I  felt  a  little  freer  to  promise  your 
interest  since  I  had  no  longer  any  business  relation 
to  you,  and  could  rely  on  your  kindness  like  —  like 
—  any  other." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Clara,  faintly ;  and  she  forbore  to 
point  out  to  him,  as  she  might  fitly  have  done,  that 
lie  had  never  had  the  right  to  advise  or  direct  her  at 
which  he  hinted,  except  as  she  expressly  conferred  it 
from  time  to  time.  "  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  —  " 

"  And  I  will  have  a  statement  of  your  affairs  drawn 
up  to-morrow,  and  sent  to  you."  Her  heart  sank ; 
she  ceased  to  move  the  fan  which  she  had  been  slowly 
waving  back  and  forth  before  her  face.  "  I  was  going 
to  set  about  it  this  morning,  but  Mrs.  Hubbard's 
visit  —  " 

"Mrs.  Hubbard!"  cried  Clara,  and  a  little  air  of 
pique  qualified  her  despair. 

"  Yes ;  she  is  in  trouble,  —  the  greatest :  her  hus- 
band has  deserted  her." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Atherton  ! "  Clara's  mind  was  now  far 
away  from  any  concern  for  herself.  The  woman 
whose  husband  has  deserted  her  supremely  appeals 
to  all  other  women.  "  I  can't  believe  it !  What 
makes  you  think  so  ? " 

"  What  she  concealed,  rather  than  what  she  told 
me,  I  believe,"  answered  Atherton.  He  ran  over  the 
main  points  of  their  interview,  and  summed  up  his 
own  conjectures.  "  I  know  from  things  Halleck  has 
let  drop  that  they  have  n't  always  lived  happily  to- 
gether; Hubbard  has  been  speculating  with  borrowed 
money,  and  he  's  in  debt  to  everybody.  She  's  been 
alone  in  her  house  for  a  fortnight,  and  she  only  came 
to  me  because  people  had  begun  to  press  her  for 


436  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

money.  She  'a  been  pretending  to  the  Hallecks  that 
she  hears  from  her  husband,  and  knows  where  he  is." 

"  Oh,  poor,  poor  thing  ! "  said  Clara,  too  shocked  to 
say  more.  "  Then  they  don't  know  ? " 

"  No  one  knows  but  ourselves.  She  came  to  me. 
because  I  was  a  comparative  stranger,  and  it  would 
cost  her  less  to  confess  her  trouble  to  me  than  to 
them,  and  she  allowed  me  to  speak  to  you  for  very 
much  the  same  reason." 

"  But  I  know  she  dislikes  me !  " 

"  So  much  the  better  !  She  can't  doubt  your  good- 
ness  —  " 

"Oh!" 

"  And  if  she  dislikes  you,  she  can  keep  her  pride 
better  with  you." 

Clara  let  her  eyes  fall,  and  fingered  the  edges  of 
her  fan.  There  was  reason  in  this,  and  she  did  not 
care  that  the  opportunity  of  usefulness  was  personally 
unflattering,  since  he  thought  her  capable  of  rising 
above  the  fact.  "  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? "  she 
asked,  lifting  her  eyes  docilely  to  his. 

"  You  must  find  some  one  to  stay  with  her,  in  her 
house,  till  she  can  be  persuaded  to  leave  it,  and  you 
must  lend  her  some  money  till  her  father  can  come 
to  her  or  write  to  her.  I  've  just  written  to  him,  and 
I  Ve  told  her  to  send  all  her  bills  to  me ;  but  I  'm 
afraid  she  may  be  in  immediate  need." 

"Terrible  !"  sighed  Clara  to  whom  the  destitution 
of  an  acquaintance  was  appalling  after  all  her  charita- 
ble knowledge  of  want  and  suffering.  "  Of  course,  we 
must  n't  lose  a  moment,"  she  added ;  but  she  lingered 
in  her  corner  of  the  sofa  to  discuss  ways  and  means 
with  him,  and  to  fathom  that  sad  enjoyment  which 
comfortable  people  find  in  the  contemplation  of  alien 
sorrows.  It  was  not  her  fault  if  she  felt  too  kindly 
toward  the  disaster  that  had  brought  Atherton  back 
to  her  on  the  old  terms ;  or  if  she  arranged  her  plans 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  437 

for  befriending  Marcia  in  her  desolation  with  too 
buoyant  a  cheerfulness.  But  she  took  herself  to  task 
for  the  radiant  smile  she  found  on  her  face,  when  she 
ran  up  stairs  and  looked  into  her  glass  to  see  how  she 
looked  in  parting  with  Atherton :  she  said  to  herself 
that  he  would  think  her  perfectly  heartless. 

She  decided  that  it  would  be  indecent  to  drive  to 
Marcia's  under  the  circumstances,  and  she  walked ; 
though  with  all  the  time  this  gave  her  for  reflection  she 
had  not  wholly  banished  this  smile  when  she  looked 
into  Marcia's  woe-begone  eyes.  But  she  found  herself 
incapable  of  the  awkwardnesses  she  had  deliberated, 
and  fell  back  upon  the  native  motherliness  of  her 
heart,  into  which  she  took  Marcia  with  sympathy 
that  ignored  everything  but  her  need  of  help  and 
pity.  Marcia's  bruised  pride  was  broken  before  the 
goodness  of  the  girl  she  had  hated,  and  she  performed 
her  sacrifice  to  Bartley's  injured  memory,  not  with  the 
haughty  self-devotion  which  she  intended  should  hu- 
miliate Miss  Kingsbury,  but  with  the  prostration  of  a 
woman  spent  with  watching  and  fasting  and  despair. 
She  held  Clara  away  for  a  moment  of  scrutiny,  and 
then  submitted  to  the  embrace  in  which  they  recog- 
liized  and  confessed  all. 

It  was  scarcely  necessary  for  Clara  to  say  that  Mr. 
Atherton  had  told  her ;  Marcia  already  knew  that ; 
tnd  Clara  became  a  partisan  of  her  theory  of  Bart- 
tey's  absence  almost  without  an  effort,  in  spite  of  the 
facts  that  Atherton  had  suggested  to  the  contrary. 
"  Of  course  !  He  has  wandered  off  somewhere,  and  a* 
soon  as  he  comes  to  his  senses  he  will  hurry  home. 
Why  I  was  reading  of  such  a  case  only  the  other  day, 
—  the  case  of  a  minister  who  wandered  off  in  just 
the  same  way,  and  found  himself  out  in  Western 
New  York  somewhere,  after  he  had  been  gone  three 
months." 

"  Bartley  won't  be  gone  three  months,"  protested 
Marcia. 


438  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  Certainly  not ! "  cried  Clara,  in  severe  self-rebuke. 
Then  she  talked  of  his  return  for  a  while  as  if  it  might 
be  expected  any  moment.  "  In  the  mean  time,"  she 
added,  "  you  must  stay  here ;  you  're  quite  right  about 
that,  too,  but  you  must  n't  stay  here  alone :  he  'd  be 
quite  as  much  shocked  at  that  as  if  he  found  you 
gone  when  he  came  back.  I  'm  going  to  ask  you  to 
let  my  friend  Miss  Strong  stay  with  you ;  and  she 
must  pay  her  board ;  and  you  must  let  me  lend  you  all 
the  money  you  need.  And,  dear,"  —  Clara  dropped 
her  voice  to  a  lower  and  gentler  note,  — "you  must  n't 
try  to  keep  this  from  your  friends.  You  must  let 
Mr.  Atherton  write  to  your  father;  you  must  let 
me  tell  the  Hallecks :  they  11  be  hurt  if  you  don't. 
You  need  n't  be  troubled ;  of  course  he  wandered  off 
in  a  temporary  hallucination,  and  nobody  will  think 
differently." 

She  adopted  the  fiction  of  Bartley's  aberration  with 
so  much  fervor  that  she  even  silenced  Atherton's  in- 
jurious theories  with  it  when  he  came  in  the  evening 
to  learn  the  result  of  her  intervention.  She  had  for- 
gotten, or  she  ignored,  the  facts  as  he  had  stated  them 
in  the  morning ;  she  was  now  Bartley's  valiant  cham- 
pion, as  well  as  the  tender  protector  of  Marcia :  she 
was  the  equal  friend  of  the  whole  exemplary  Hubbard 
family. 

Atherton  laughed,  and  she  asked  what  he  was 
laughing  at. 

"  Oh,"  he  answered,  "  at  something  Ben  Halleck 
once  said  :  a  real  woman  can  make  righteousness  deli- 
cious and  virtue  piquant." 

Clara  reflected.  "  I  don't  know  whether  I  like 
that,"  she  said  finally. 

"  No  ? "  said  Atherton.     "  Why  not  ? " 

She  was  serving  him  with  an  after-dinner  cup  of  tea, 
which  she  had  brought  into  the  drawing-room,  and  in 
putting  the  second  lump  of  sugar  into  his  saucer  she 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  439 

paused  again,  thoughtfully,  holding  the  little  cube  in 
the  tongs.  She  was  rather  elaborately  dressed  for  so 
simple  an  occasion,  and  her  silken  train  coiled  itself 
far  out  over  the  mossy  depth  of  the  moquette  carpet; 
the  pale  blue  satin  of  the  furniture,  and  the  delicate 
white  and  gold  of  the  decorations,  became  her  won- 
derfully. 

"  I  can't  say,  exactly.  It  seems  depreciatory,  some- 
how, as  a  generalization.  But  a  man  might  say  it  of 
the  woman  he  was  in  love  with,"  she  concluded. 

"  And  you  would  n't  approve  of  a  man's  saying  it 
of  the  woman  his  friend  was  in  love  with  ?  "  pursued 
Atherton,  taking  his  cup  from  her. 

"If  they  were  very  close  friends."  She  did  not 
know  why,  but  she  blushed,  and  then  grew  a  little 
pale. 

"  I  understand  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
should  n't  have  liked  the  speech  from  another  kind 
of  man.  But  Halleck's  innocence  characterized  it." 
He  stirred  his  tea,  and  then  let  it  stand  untasted  in 
his  abstraction. 

"  Yes,  he  is  good,"  sighed  Clara.  "  If  he  were  not 
so  good,  it  would  be  hard  to  forgive  him  for  disap- 
pointing all  their  hopes  in  the  way  he 's  done." 

"  It 's  the  best  thing  he  could  have  done,"  said 
A-therton  gravely,  even  severely. 

"  I  know  you  advised  it,"  asserted  Clara.  "  But 
it's  a  great  blow  to  them.  How  strange  that  Mr. 
Hubbard  should  have  disappeared  the  last  night  Ben 
was  at  home  )  I  'in  glad  that  he  got  away  without 
knowing  anything  about  it." 

Atherton  drank  off  his  tea,  and  refused  a  second 
cup  with  a  gesture  of  his  hand.  "  Yes,  so  am  I,"  he 
said.  "  I  'm  glad  of  every  league  of  sea  he  puts  be- 
hind him."  He  rose,  as  if  eager  to  leave  the  subject. 

Clara  rose  too,  with  the  patient  acquiescence  of  a 
<voman,  and  took  his  hand  proffered  in  parting. 


440  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

They  had  certainly  talked  out,  but  there  seemed  na 
reason  why  he  should  go.  He  held  her  hand,  while 
he  asked,  "  How  shall  I  make  my  peace  with  you  ? " 

"  My  peace  ?  What  for  ? "  She  flushed  joyfully. 
"  I  was  the  one  in  fault." 

He  looked  at  her  mystified.  "  Why,  surely,  yoi, 
did  n't  repeat  Halleck's  remark  ?  " 

"  Oh ! "  she  cried  indignantly,  withdrawing  heJ 
hand.  "  I  meant  this  morning.  It  does  n't  matter,' 
she  added.  "  If  you  still  wish  to  resign  the  charge 
of  my  affairs,  of  course  I  must  submit.  But  I  thought 

—  I  thought  — "  She  did  not  go  on,  she  was  too  deeply 
hurt.     Up  to  this  moment  she  had  imagined  that  she 
had  befriended  Marcia,  and  taken  all  that  trouble  upon 
herself  for  goodness'  sake  ;  but  now  she  was  ready  to 
upbraid  him  for  ingratitude  in  not  seeing  that  she 
had  done  it  for  his  sake.     "  You  can  send  me  the 
statement,  and  then  —  and  then  —  I  don't  know  what 
I  shall  do  !     Why  do  you  mind  what   I  said  ?     I  Ve 
often   said  quite    as    much    before,  and    you  know 
that  I  did  n't  mean  it.     I  want  you  to  take  my  prop- 
erty back  again,  and  never  to  mind  anything  I  say : 
I  'm  not  worth  minding."     Her  intended  upbraiding 
had  come  to  this  pitiful  effect  of  self-contempt,  and 
her  hand  somehow  was  in  his   again.     "  Do  take  it 
back!" 

"If  I  do  that,"  said  Atherton,  gravely,  "I  must 
make  my  conditions,"  and  now  they  sat  down  to- 
gether on  the  sofa  from  which  he  had  risen.  "  I 
can't  be  subjected  again  to  your  —  disappointments," 

—  he  arrested  with  a  motion  of  his  hand  the  profus' 
expression  of  her  penitence  and  good  intentions,— 
"  and  I  Ve  felt  for  a  long  time  that  this  was  no  attitudt, 
for  your  attorney.     You  ought  to  have  the  right  to 
question  and  censure  ;  but  I  confess  I  can't  grant  you 
this.    I  Ve  allowed  myself  to  make  your  interests  too 
much  my  own  in  everything  to  be  able  to  bear  it.    I  Ve 


X  MODERN   INSTANCE.  441 

thought  several  times  that  I  ought  to  give  up  the 
trust  ;  but  it  seemed  like  giving  up  so  much  more,  that 
I  never  had  the  courage  to  do  it  in  cold  blood.  This 
morning  you  gave  me  my  chance  to  do  it  in  hot 
blood,  and  if  I  resume  it,  I  must  make  my  terms." 

It  seemed  a  long  speech  to  Clara,  who  sometimes 
thought  she  knew  whither  it  tended,  and  sometimes 
not.  She  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  Yes." 

"  I  must  be  relieved,"  continued  Atherton,  "  of  the 
sense  I  've  had  that  it  was  indelicate  in  me  to  keep 
it,  while  I  felt  as  I  Ve  grown  to  feel  —  towards  you." 
He  stopped  :  "  If  I  take  it  back,  you  must  come  with 
it ! "  he  suddenly  concluded. 

The  inconsistency  of  accepting  these  conditions 
ought  to  have  struck  a  woman  who  had  so  long  im- 
agined herself  the  chase  of  fortune-hunters.  But 
Clara  apparently  found  nothing  alarming  in  the  de- 
mand of  a  man  who  openly  acted  upon  his  knowledge 
of  what  could  only  have  been  matter  of  conjecture 
to  many  suitors  she  had  snubbed.  She  found  noth- 
ing incongruous  in  the  transaction,  and  she  said, 
with  as  tremulous  breath  and  as  swift  a  pulse  as  if  the 
question  had  been  solely  of  herself,  "  I  accept  —  the 
conditions." 

In  the  long,  happy  talk  that  lasted  till  midnight, 
they  did  not  fail  to  recognize  that,  but  for  their 
common  pity  of  Marcia,  they  might  have  remained 
estranged,  and  they  were  decently  ashamed  of  their 
bliss  when  they  thought  of  misery  like  hers.  When 
Atherton  rose  to  bid  Clara  good  night,  Marcia  was 
still  watching  for  Bartley,  indulging  for  the  last  time 
the  folly  of  waiting  for  him  as  if  she  definitely  ex- 
pected him  that  night. 

Every  night  since  he  disappeared,  she  had  kept  the 
lights  burning  in  the  parlor  and  hall,  and  drowsed 
before  the  fire  till  the  dawn  drove  her  to  a  few  hours 
t>f  sleep  in  bed.  But  with  the  coming  of  the  stranger 


442  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

who  was  to  be  her  companion,  she  must  deny  herself 
even  this  consolation,  and  openly  accept  the  fact  that 
she  no  longer  expected  Bartley  at  any  given  time. 
She  bitterly  rebelled  at  the  loss  of  her  solitude,  in 
which  she  could  be  miserable  in  whatever  way  her 
sorrow  prompted,  and  the  pangs  with  which  she  had 
submitted  to  Miss  Kingsbury's  kindness  grew  sharper 
hour  by  hour  till  she  maddened  in  a  frenzy  of  resent- 
ment against  the  cruelty  of  her  expiation.  She  longed 
for  the  day  to  come  that  she  might  go  to  her,  and 
take  back  her  promises  and  her  submission,  and  fling 
her  insulting  good-will  in  her  face.  She  said  to  her- 
self that  no  one  should  enter  her  door  again  till  Bart- 
ley  opened  it ;  she  would  die  there  in  the  house,  she 
and  her  baby,  and  as  she  stood  wringing  her  hands 
and  moaning  over  the  sleeping  little  one,  a  hideous 
impulse  made  her  brain  reel;  she  wished  to  look  if 
Bartley  had  left  his  pistol  in  its  place ;  a  cry  for  help 
against  herself  broke  from  her ;  she  dropped  upon  her 
knees. 

The  day  came,  and  the  hope  and  strength  which 
the  mere  light  so  strangely  brings  to  the  sick  in  spirit 
as  well  as  the  sick  in  body  visited  Marcia.  She 
abhorred  the  temptation  of  the  night  like  the  remem- 
brance of  a  wicked  dream,  and  she  went  about  with  a 
humble  and  grateful  prayer  —  to  something,  to  some 
one — in  her  heart.  Her  housewifely  pride  stirred 
again  :  that  girl  should  not  think  she  was  a  slattern  ; 
and  Miss  Strong,  when  she  preceded  her  small  trunk 
in  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  found  the  parlor  and 
the  guest-chamber,  which  she  was  to  have,  swept,  and 
dusted,  and  set  in  perfect  order  by  Marcia's  hands. 
She  had  worked  with  fury,  and  kept  her  heart-ache 
etill,  but  it  began  again  at  sight  of  the  girl.  Fortu- 
nately, the  conservatory  pupil  had  embraced  with 
even  more  than  Miss  Kingsbury's  ardor  the  theory  of 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  443 

Hartley's  aberration,  and  she  met  Marcia  with  a  sym- 
pathy in  her  voice  and  eyes  that  could  only  have 
come  from  sincere  conviction.  She  was  a  simple 
country  thing,  who  would  never  be  a  prima  donna ; 
but  the  overflowing  sentimentality  which  enabled  her 
to  accept  herself  at  the  estimate  of  her  enthusiastic 
fellow-villagers  made  her  of  far  greater  comfort  to 
Marcia  than  the  sublimest  musical  genius  would  have 
done.  She  worshipped  the  heroine  of  so  tragic  a 
fact,  and  her  heart  began  to  go  out  to  her  in  honest 
helpfulness  from  the  first  She  broke  in  upon  the 
monotony  of  Marcia's  days  with  the  offices  and  in- 
terests of  wholesome  commonplace,  and  exorcised  the 
ghostly  silence  with  her  first  stroke  on  the  piano,  — 
which  Bartley  had  bought  on  the  instalment  plan 
and  had  not  yet  paid  for. 

In  fine,  life  adjusted  itself  with  Marcia  to  the 
new  conditions,  as  it  does  with  women  less  wofully 
widowed  by  death,  who  promise  themselves  reunion 
with  their  lost  in  another  world,  and  suffer  through 
the  first  weeks  and  days  in  the  hope  that  their  part- 
ing will  be  for  but  days  or  weeks,  and  then  gradually 
submit  to  indefinite  delay.  She  prophesied  Bartley's 
return,  and  fixed  it  in  her  own  mind  for  this  hour  and 
that.  "  Now,  in  the  morning,  I  shall  wake  and  find 
him  standing  by  the  bed.  No,  at  night  he  will  come 
in  and  surprise  us  at  dinner."  She  cheated  herself 
with  increasing  faith  at  each  renewal  of  her  hopes. 
When  she  ceased  to  formulate  them  at  last,  it  was 
because  they  had  served  their  end,  and  left  her  es- 
tablished, if  not  comforted,  in  the  superstition  by 
which  she  lived.  His  return  at  any  hour  or  any 
moment  was  the  fetish  which  she  let  no  misgiving 
blaspheme ;  everything  in  her  of  woman  and  of  wife 
consecrated  it  She  kept  the  child  in  continual  re- 
membrance of  him  by  talking  of  him,  and  by  making 
jher  recognize  the  photographs  in  which  Bartley  had 


444  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

abundantly  perpetuated  himself ;  at  night,  when  she 
folded  the  little  one's  hands  for  prayer,  she  made  her 
pray  God  to  take  care  of  poor  papa  and  send  him 
home  soon  to  mamma.  She  was  beginning  to  can- 
onize him. 

Her  father  came  to  see  her  as  soon  as  he  thought 
it  best  after  Atherton's  letter ;  and  the  old  man  had 
to  endure  talk  of  Bartley  to  which  all  her  former 
praises  were  as  refreshing  shadows  of  defamation. 
She  required  him  to  agree  with  everything  she  said, 
and  he  could  not  refuse;  she  reproached  him  for 
being  with  herself  the  cause  of  all  Bartley's  errors, 
and  he  had  to  bear  it  without  protest.  At  the  end 
he  could  say  nothing  but  "  Better  come  home  with 
me,  Marcia,"  and  he  suffered  in  meekness  the  indig- 
nation with  which  she  rebuked  him  :  "  I  will  stay  in 
Bartley's  house  till  he  comes  back  to  me.  If  he  is 
dead,  I  will  die  here." 

The  old  man  had  satisfied  himself  that  Bartley  had 
absconded  in  his  own  rascally  right  mind,  and  he  ac- 
cepted with  tacit  grimness  the  theory  of  the  detect- 
ives that  he  had  not  gone  to  Europe  alone.  He  paid 
back  the  money  which  Bartley  had  borrowed  from 
Halleck,  and  he  set  himself  as  patiently  as  he  could 
to  bear  with  Marcia's  obstinacy.  It  was  a  mania 
which  must  be  indulged  for  the  time,  and  he  could 
only  trust  to  Atherton  to  keep  him  advised  concern- 
ing her.  When  he  offered  her  money  at  parting,  she 
hesitated.  But  she  finally  took  it,  saying,  "  Bartley 
will  pay  it  back,  every  cent,  as  soon  as  he  gets  home. 
And  if,"  she  added,  "  he  does  n't  get  back  soon,  I 
will  take  some  other  boarders  and  pay  it  myself." 

He  could  see  that  she  was  offended  with  him  foi 
asking  her  to  go  home.  But  she  was  his  girl ;  he 
wily  pitied  her.  He  shook  hands  with  her  as  usual, 
and  kissed  her  with  the  old  stoicism ;  but  his  lips,  set 
to  fierceness  by  the  life-long  habit  of  sarcasm,  trembled 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  445 

as  he  turned  away.  She  was  eager  to  have  him  go , 
for  she  had  given  him  Miss  Strong's  room,  and  had 
taken  the  girl  into  her  own,  and  Bartley  would  not 
like  it  if  he  came  back  and  found  her  there. 

Bartley's  disappearance  was  scarcely  a  day's  won- 
der with  people  outside  his  own  circle  in  that  time 
of  anxiety  for  a  fair  count  in  Louisiana  and  Florida, 
and  long  before  the  Returning  Boards  had  partially 
relieved  the  tension  of  the  public  mind  by  their  de- 
cision he  had  quite  dropped  out  of  it.  The  reporters 
who  called  at  his  house  to  get  the  bottom  facts  in 
the  case,  adopted  Marcia's  theory,  given  them  by  Miss 
Strong,  and  whatever  were  their  own  suspicions  or 
convictions,  paragraphed  him  with  merciful  brevity  as 
having  probably  wandered  away  during  a  temporary 
hallucination.  They  spoke  of  the  depression  of  spirits 
which  many  of  his  friends  had  observed  in  him,  and 
of  pecuniary  losses,  as  the  cause.  They  mentioned  his 
possible  suicide  only  to  give  the  report  the  authori- 
tative denial  of  his  family ;  and  they  added,  that  the 
case  was  in  the  hands  of  the  detectives,  who  believed 
themselves  in  possession  of  important  clews.  The 
detectives  in  fact  remained  constant  to  their  original 
theory,  that  Bartley  had  gone  to  Europe,  and  they 
were  able  to  name  with  reasonable  confidence  the 
person  with  whom  he  had  eloped.  But  these  were 
matters  hushed  up  among  the  force  and  the  press. 
In  the  mean  time,  Bartley  had  been  simultaneously 
seen  at  Montreal  and  Cincinnati,  at  about  the  same 
time  that  an  old  friend  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  him 
on  a  train  bound  westward  from  Chicago. 

So  far  as  the  world  was  concerned,  the  surmise 
with  which  Marcia  saved  herself  from  final  despair 
was  the  only  impression  that  even  vaguely  remained 
of  the  affair.  Her  friends,  who  had  compassionately 
acquiesced  in  it  at  first,  waited  for  the  moment  when 
they  could  urge  her  to  relinquish  it  and  go  home  to 


446  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

her  father;  but  while  they  waited,  she  gathered 
strength  to  establish  herself  immovably  in  it,  and  to 
shape  her  life  more  and  more  closely  about  it.  She 
had  no  idea,  no  instinct,  but  to  stay  where  he  had 
left  her  till  he  came  back.  She  opposed  this  singly 
and  solely  against  all  remonstrance,  and  treated  every 
suggestion  to  the  contrary  as  an  instigation  to  crime. 
Her  father  came  from  time  to  time  during  the  winter 
to  see  her,  but  she  would  never  go  home  with  him 
even  for  a  day.  She  put  her  plan  in  force ;  she  took 
Other  boarders  :  other  girl  students  like  Miss  Strong, 
whom  her  friends  brought  her  when  they  found  that  it 
was  useless  to  oppose  her  and  so  began  to  abet  her ; 
she  worked  hard,  and  she  actually  supported  herself  at 
last  in  a  frugal  independence.  Her  father  consulted 
with  Atherton  and  the  Hallecks ;  he  saw  that  she 
was  with  good  and  faithful  friends,  and  he  submitted 
to  what  he  could  not  help.  When  the  summer  came, 
he  made  a  last  attempt  to  induce  her  to  go  home  with 
him.  He  told  her  that  her  mother  wished  to  see  her. 
She  would  not  understand.  "  1 11  come,"  she  said,  "  if 
mother  gets  seriously  sick.  But  I  can't  go  home  for 
the  summer.  If  I  had  n't  been  at  home  last  summer, 
he  would  never  have  got  into  that  way,  and  it  would 
never  have  happened." 

She  went  home  at  last,  in  obedience  to  a  peremp- 
tory summons ;  but  her  mother  was  too  far  gone  to 
know  her  when  she  came.  Her  quiet,  narrow  life 
had  grown  colder  and  more  inward  to  the  end,  and  it 
passed  without  any  apparent  revival  of  tenderness  for 
those  once  dear  to  her  ;  the  funeral  publicity  that  fol- 
lowed seemed  a  final  touch  of  the  fate  by  which  all 
her  preferences  had  been  thwarted  in  the  world. 

Marcia  stayed  only  till  she  could  put  the  house  in 
order  after  they  had  laid  her  mother  to  rest  among 
the  early  reddening  sumacs  under  the  hot  glare  of  the 
August  sun ;  and  when  she  came  away,  she  brought 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  44*7 

her  father  with  her  to  Boston,  where  he  spent  his 
days  as  he  might,  taking  long  and  aimless  walks, 
devouring  heaps  of  newspapers,  rusting  in  idleness, 
und  aging  fast,  as  men  do  in  the  irksomeness  of 
disuse. 

Halleck's  father  was  beginning  to  show  his  age, 
too ;  and  Halleck's  mother  lived  only  in  her  thoughts 
of  him,  and  her  hopes  of  his  return  ;  but  he  did  not 
even  speak  of  this  in  his  letters  to  them.  He  said 
very  little  of  himself,  and  they  could  merely  infer 
that  the  experiment  to  which  he  had  devoted  himself 
was  becoming  less  and  less  satisfactory.  Their  sense 
of  this  added  its  pang  to  their  unhappiness  in  his 
absence. 

One  day  Marcia  said  to  Olive  Halleck,  "  Has  any 
one  noticed  that  you  are  beginning  to  look  like  your 
sisters  ? " 

"  /  *ve  noticed  it,"  answered  the  girl.  "  I  always 
was  an  old  maid,  and  now  I  'm  beginning  to  show  it." 

Marcia  wondered  if  she  had  not  hurt  Olive's  feel- 
ings ;  but  she  would  never  have  known  how  to  ex- 
cuse herself ;  and  latterly  she  had  been  growing  more 
and  more  like  her  father  in  certain  traits.  Perhaps 
her  passion  for  Bartley  had  been  the  one  spring  of 
tenderness  in  her  nature,  and,  if  ever  it  were  spent* 
she  would  stiffen  into  the  old  man's  stern  aridity. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 


XXXVL 

IT  was  nearly  two  years  after  Atherton's  marriage 
that  Halleck  one  day  opened  the  door  of  the  lawyer's 
private  office,  and,  turning  the  key  in  the  lock,  limped 
forward  to  where  the  latter  was  sitting  at  his  desk. 
Halleck  was  greatly  changed :  the  full  beard  that  he 
had  grown  scarcely  hid  the  savage  gauntness  of  his 
face ;  but  the  change  was  not  so  much  in  lines  and 
contours  as  in  that  expression  of  qualities  which  we 
call  looks. 

"  Well,  Atherton  ! » 

"Halleck!    You!" 

The  friends  looked  at  each  other ;  and  Atherton 
finally  broke  from  his  amaze  and  offered  his  hand, 
with  an  effect,  even  then,  of  making  conditions.  But 
it  was  Halleck  who  was  the  first  to  speak  again. 

"  How  is  she  ?  Is  she  well  ?  Is  she  still  here  1 
Have  they  heard  anything  from  him  yet  ? " 

"No,"  said  Atherton,  answering  the  last  question 
with  the  same  provisional  effect  as  before. 

"  Then  he  is  dead.  That 's  what  I  knew  ;  that 's 
what  I  said  !  And  here  I  am.  The  fight  is  overw 
and  that 's  the  end  of  it.  I  'm  beaten.' ' 

"  You  look  it,"  said  Atherton,  sadly. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  look  it.  That 's  the  reason  I  can  afford 
to  be  frank,  in  coming  back  to  my  friends.  I  kne\\ 
that  with  this  look  in  my  face  I  should  make  my  own 
welcome  ;  and  it 's  cordial  even  beyond  my  expecta- 
tions." 

"  I  'm  not  glad  to  see  you,  Halleck,"  said  Atherton- 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  449 

*  For  your  own  sake  I  wish  you  were  at  the  other  end 
of  the  world." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that.  How  are  my  people  ?  Have 
you  seen  my  father  lately  ?  Or  my  mother  ?  Or  — 
Olive  ? "  A  pathetic  tremor  shook  his  voice. 

"Why,  haven't  you  seen  them  yet?"  demanded 
Itherton. 

Halleck  laughed  cynically.  "  My  dear  friend,  my 
steamer  arrived  this  morning,  and  I  'm  just  off  the  New 
York  train.  I  've  hurried  to  your  office  in  all  the  im- 
patience of  friendship.  I  'm  very  lucky  to  find  you 
here  so  late  in  the  day !  You  can  take  me  home  to 
dinner,  and  let  your  domestic  happiness  preach  to  me. 
Come,  I  rather  like  the  notion  of  that ! " 

"  Halleck,"  said  Atherton,  without  heeding  his  ban- 
ter, "  I  wish  you  would  go  away  again !  No  one 
knows  you  are  here,  you  say,  and  no  one  need  ever 
know  it." 

Halleck  set  his  lips  and  shook  his  head,  with  a 
mocking  smile.  "I'm  surprised  at  you,  Atherton, 
with  your  knowledge  of  human  nature.  I  Ve  come 
to  stay ;  you  must  know  that.  You  must  know  that  I 
had  gone  through  everything  before  I  gave  up,  and 
that  I  have  n't  the  strength  to  begin  the  struggle  over 
again.  I  tell  you  I  'm  beaten,  and  I  'm  glad  of  it ;  for 
there  is  rest  in  it.  You  would  waste  your  breath,  if 
you  talked  to  me  in  the  old  way  ;  there  's  nothing  in 
me  to  appeal  to,  any  more.  If  I  was  wrong  —  But 
I  don't  admit,  any  more,  that  I  was  wrong:  by 
heaven,  I  was  right !  " 

"  You  are  beaten,  Halleck,"  said  Atherton  sorrow- 
fully. He  pushed  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and 
clasped  his  hands  together  behind  his  head,  as  his 
habit  was  in  reasoning  with  obstinate  clients.  "  What 
do  you  propose  to  do  ? " 

"  I  propose  to  stay." 

"What  for?" 


450  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"  What  for  ?    Till  I  can  prove  that  he  is  dead." 

"And  then?" 

"  Then  I  shall  be  free  to  ask  her."  He  added  angrily; 
"  You  know  what  I  Ve  come  back  for :  why  do  you  tor- 
ment me  with  these  questions  ?  I  did  what  I  could ; 
I  ran  away.  And  the  last  night  I  saw  her,  I  thrust 
her  back  into  that  hell  she  called  her  home,  and  I 
told  her  that  no  man  could  be  her  refuge  from  that 
devil,  her  husband,  —  when  she  had  begged  me  in  her 
mortal  terror  to  go  in  with  her,  and  save  her  from 
him.  That  was  the  recollection  I  had  to  comfort  me 
when  I  tried  to  put  her  out  of  my  mind,  —  out  of 
my  soul !  When  I  heard  that  he  was  gone,  I  re- 
spected her  days  of  mourning.  God  knows  how  I 
endured  it,  now  it 's  over ;  but  I  did  endure  it.  I 
waited,  and  here  I  am.  And  you  ask  me  to  go  away 
again!  Ah!"  He  fetched  his  breath  through  his 
set  teeth,  and  struck  his  fist  on  his  knee.  "  He  is 
dead !  And  now,  if  she  will,  she  can  marry  me. 
Don't  look  at  me  as  if  I  had  killed  him !  There 
has  n't  been  a  time  in  these  two  infernal  years  when  I 
would  n't  have  given  my  life  to  save  his  —  for  her 
sake.  I  know  that,  and  that  gives  me  courage,  it 
gives  me  hope." 

"But  if  he  is  n't  dead?" 

"Then  he  has  abandoned  her,  and  she  has  the 
right  to  be  free  :  she  can  get  a  divorce  ! " 

"Oh,"  said  Atherton,  compassionately,  "has  that 
poison  got  into  you,  Halleck  ?  You  might  ask  her,  if 
she  were  a  widow,  to  marry  you ;  but  how  will  you 
ask  her,  if  she  's  still  a  wife,  to  get  a  divorce  and  then 
marry  you  ?  How  will  you  suggest  that  to  a  woman 
whose  constancy  to  her  mistake  has  made  her  sacred 
to  you  ?  "  Halleck  seemed  about  to  answer  ;  but  he 
only  panted,  dry-lipped  and  open-mouthed,  and  Ath- 
erton continued  :  "  You  would  have  to  corrupt  her 
Boul  first.  I  don't  know  what  change  you  Ve  made  in 


A  MODEKN  INSTANCE.  451 

yourself  during  these  two  years  ;  you  look  like  a  des- 
perate and  defeated  man,  but  you  don't  look  like  that. 
You  don't  look  like  one  of  those  scoundrels  who  lure 
women  from  their  duty,  ruin  homes,  and  destroy  soci- 
ety, not  in  the  old  libertine  fashion  in  which  the 
seducer  had  at  least  the  grace  to  risk  his  life,  but 
safely,  smoothly,  under  the  shelter  of  our  infamous 
laws.  Have  you  really  come  back  here  to  give  your 
father's  honest  name,  and  the  example  of  a  man  of 
your  own  blameless  life,  in  support  of  conditions  that 
tempt  people  to  marry  with  a  mental  reservation,  and 
that  weaken  every  marriage  bond  with  the  guilty  hope 
of  escape  whenever  a  fickle  mind,  or  secret  lust,  or 
wicked  will  may  dictate  ?  Have  you  come  to  join 
yourself  to  those  miserable  spectres  who  go  shrinking 
through  the  world,  afraid  of  their  own  past,  and 
anxious  to  hide  it  from  those  they  hold  dear ;  or  do 
you  propose  to  defy  the  world,  to  help  form  within  it 
the  community  of  outcasts  with  whom  shame  is  not 
shame,  nor  dishonor,  dishonor  ?  How  will  you  like 
the  society  of  those  uncertain  men,  those  certain 
women  ? " 

"  You  are  very  eloquent,"  said  Halleck,  "  but  I  ask 
you  to  observe  that  these  little  abstractions  don't  in- 
terest me.  I  've  a  concrete  purpose,  and  I  can't  con- 
template the  effect  of  other  people's  actions  upon 
American  civilization.  When  you  ask  me  to  believe 
that  I  ought  n't  to  try  to  rescue  a  woman  from  the 
misery  to  which  a  villain  has  left  her,  simply  because 
some  justice  of  the  peace  consecrated  his  power 
over  her,  I  decline  to  be  such  a  fool.  I  use  my  rea- 
son, and  I  see  who  it  was  that  defiled  and  destroyed 
that  marriage,  and  I  know  that  she  is  as  free  in  the 
sight  of  God  as  if  he  had  never  lived.  If  the  world 
does  n't  like  my  open  shame,  let  it  look  to  its  own 
secret  shame,  —  the  marriages  made  and  maintained 
from  interest,  and  ambition,  and  vanity,  and  folly.  I 


452  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

will  take  my  chance  with  the  men  and  women  who 
have  been  honest  enough  to  own  their  mistake,  and  to 
try  to  repair  it,  and  I  will  preach  by  my  life  that  mar- 
riage has  no  sanctity  but  what  love  gives  it,  and 
that  when  love  ceases  marriage  ceases,  before  heaven. 
If  the  laws  have  come  to  recognize  that,  by  whatever 
fiction,  so  much  the  better  for  the  laws  ! "  Halleck 
rose. 

"  Well,  then,"  cried  Atherton,  rising,  too,  "  you  shall 
meet  me  on  your  own  ground  !  This  poor  creature  is 
constant  in  every  breath  she  draws  to  the  ruffian  who 
has  abandoned  her.  I  must  believe,  since  you  say  it, 
that  you  are  ready  to  abet  her  in  getting  a  divorce, 
even  one  of  those  divorces  that  are  '  obtained  without 
publicity,  and  for  any  cause,'  "  —  Halleck  winced,  — 
"  that  you  are  willing  to  put  your  sisters  to  shame 
before  the  world,  to  break  your  mother's  heart,  and 
your  father's  pride,  —  to  insult  the  ideal  of  goodness 
that  she  herself  has  formed  of  you;  but  how  will  you 
begin  ?  The  love  on  her  part,  at  least,  has  n't  ceased : 
has  the  marriage  ?  " 

"  She  shall  tell  me,"  answered  Halleck.  He  left 
Atherton  without  another  word,  and  in  resentment 
that  effaced  all  friendship  between  them,  though  after 
this  parting  they  still  kept  up  its  outward  forms,  and 
the  Athertons  took  part  in  the  rejoicings  with  which 
the  Hallecks  celebrated  Ben's  return.  His  meet- 
ing with  the  lawyer  was  the  renewal  of  the  old  con- 
flict on  terms  of  novel  and  hopeless  degradation.  He 
had  mistaken  for  peace  that  exhaustion  of  spirit  which 
comes  to  a  man  in  battling  with  his  conscience ;  he 
had  fancied  his  struggle  over,  and  he  was  to  learn  now 
that  its  anguish  had  just  begun.  In  that  delusion 
his  love  was  to  have  been  a  law  to  itself,  able  to  loose 
and  to  bind,  and  potent  to  beat  down  all  regrets,  all 
doubts,  all  fears,  that  questioned  it ;  but  the  words 
with  which  Marcia  met  him  struck  his  passion  dumb 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  453 

*  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  l&ck  ! "  she  said. 
"  Now  I  know  that  we  can  find  him.  You  were  such 
friends  with  him,  and  you  understood  him  so  well,  that 
you  will  know  jiist  what  to  do.  Yes,  we  shall  find 
him  now,  and  we  should  have  found  him  long  ago  if 
you  had  been  here.  Oh,  if  you  had  never  gone  away ! 
But  I  can  never  be  grateful  enough  for  what  you  said 
to  me  that  night  when  you  would  not  come  in  with 
me.  The  words  have  rung  in  my  ears  ever  since ;  they 
showed  that  you  had  faith  in  him,  more  faith  than  I 
had,  and  I  Ve  made  them  my  rule  and  my  guide.  No 
one  has  been  my  refuge  from  him,  and  no  one  ever 
shall  be.  And  I  thank  you  —  yes,  I  thank  you  on  my 
bended  knees  —  for  making  me  go  into  the  house 
alone ;  it 's  my  one  comfort  that  I  had  the  strength  to 
come  back  to  him,  and  let  him  do  anything  he  would 
to  me,  after  I  had  treated  him  so ;  but  I  Ve  never 
pretended  it  was  my  own  strength.  I  have  always 
told  everybody  that  the  strength  came  from  you  ! " 

Halleck  had  brought  Olive  with  him;  she  and 
Marcia's  father  listened  to  these  words  with  the 
patience  of  people  who  had  heard  them  many  times 
before;  but  at  the  end  Olive  glanced  at  Halleck's 
downcast  face  with  fond  pride  in  the  satisfaction  she 
imagined  they  must  give  him.  The  old  man  ruminated 
upon  a  bit  of  broom  straw,  and  absently  let  the  little 
girl  catch  by  his  hands,  as  she  ran  to  and  fro  between 
him  and  her  mother  while  her  mother  talked.  Hal- 
leck made  a  formless  sound  in  his  throat,  for  answer, 
and  Marcia  went  on. 

"  I  Ve  got  a  new  plan  now,  but  it  seems  as  if  father 
took  a  pleasure  in  discouraging  all  my  plans.  I  know 
that  Bartley  's  shut  up,  somewhere,  in  some  asylum, 
and  I  want  them  to  send  detectives  to  all  the  asylums 
in  the  United  States  and  in  Canada,  —  you  can't  tell 
how  far  off  he  would  wander  in  that  state,  —  and  in- 
quire if  any  stray  insane  person  has  been  brought  to 


454  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

them.  Does  n't  it  seem  to  you  as  if  that  would  be  the 
right  way  to  find  him  ?  I  want  to  talk  it  all  over  with 
you,  Mr.  Halleck,  for  I  know  you  can  sympathize  with 
me ;  arid  if  need  be  I  will  go  to  the  asylums  myself ; 
I  will  walk  to  them,  I  will  crawl  to  them  on  my 
knees !  When  I  think  of  him  shut  up  there  among 
those  raving  maniacs,  and  used  as  they  use  people  in 
some  of  the  asylums  —  Oh,  oh,  oh,  oh  !  " 

She  broke  out  into  sobs,  and  caught  her  little  girl 
to  her  breast.  The  child  must  have  been  accustomed 
to  her  mother's  tears;  she  twisted  her  head  round, 
and  looked  at  Halleck  with  a  laughing  face. 

Marcia  dried  her  eyes,  and  asked,  with  quivering 
lips,  "  Is  n't  she  like  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Halleck  huskily. 

"  She  has  his  long  eyelashes  exactly,  and  his  hair 
and  complexion,  has  n't  she  ? " 

The  old  man  sat  chewing  his  broom  straw  in 
silence ;  but  when  Marcia  left  the  room  to  get  Hartley's 
photograph,  so  that  Halleck  might  see  the  child's 
resemblance  to  him,  her  father  looked  at  Halleck  from 
under  his  beetling  brows :  "  I  don't  think  we  need 
trouble  the  asylums  much  for  Bartley  Hubbard.  But 
if  it  was  to  search  the  States  prisons  and  the  jails, 
the  rum-holes  and  the  gambling-hells,  or  if  it  was  to 
dig  up  the  scoundrels  who  have  been  hung  under 
assumed  names  during  the  last  two  years,  I  should 
have  some  hopes  of  identifying  him." 

Marcia  came  back,  and  the  old  man  sat  in  cast-iron 
quiet,  as  if  he  had  never  spoken ;  it  was  clear  that 
whatever  hate  he  felt  for  Bartley  he  spared  her ;  and 
that  if  he  discouraged  her  plans,  as  she  said,  it  was 
because  they  were  infected  by  the  craze  in  which  she 
canonized  Bartley. 

"  You  see  how  she  is,"  said  Olive,  when  they  came 
away. 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  Halleck  desolately  assented. 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  455 

"  Sometimes  she  seems  to  me  just  like  a  querulous, 
vulgar,  middle-aged  woman  in  her  talk ;  she  repeats 
herself  in  the  same  scolding  sort  of  way ;  and  she 's  so 
eager  to  blame  somebody  besides  Bartley  for  Bartley's 
wickedness  that,  when  she  can't  punish  herself,  she 
punishes  her  father.  She 's  merciless  to  that  wretched 
old  man,  and  he  's  wearing  his  homesick  life  out  here 
in  the  city  for  her  sake.  You  heard  her  just  now, 
about  his  discouraging  her  plans  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Halleck,  as  before. 

"  She  's  grown  commoner  and  narrower,  but  it 's 
hardly  her  fault,  poor  thing,  and  it  seems  terribly 
unjust  that  she  should  be  made  so  by  what  she  has 
suffered.  But  that 's  just  the  way  it  has  happened. 
She 's  so  undisciplined,  that  she  could  n't  get  any  good 
out  of  her  misfortunes  ;  she 's  only  got  harm  :  they  Ve 
made  her  selfish,  and  th°re  seems  to  be  nothing  left 
of  what  she  was  two  years  ago  but  her  devotion  to 
'  liat  miserable  wretch.  You  must  n't  let  it  turn 
v  ou  against  her,  Ben ;  you  must  n't  forget  what  she 
might  have  been.  She  had  a  rich  nature ;  but  how 
it 's  been  wasted,  and  turned  back  upon  itself !  Poor, 
untrained,  impulsive,  innocent  creature,  —  my  heart 
aches  for  her !  It 's  been  hard  to  bear  with  her  at 
times,  terribly  hard,  and  you  '11  find  it  so,  Ben.  But 
you  must  bear  with  her.  The  awfulest  thing  about 
people  in  trouble  is  that  they  are  such  bores;  they 
tire  you  to  death.  But  you  '11  only  have  to  stand  her 
praises  of  what  Bartley  was,  and  we  had  to  stand 
them,  and  her  hopes  of  what  you  would  be  if  you  were 
only  at  home,  besides.  I  don't  know  what  all  she 
expects  of  you;  but  you  must  try  not  to  disap- 
point her ;  she  worships  the  ground  you  tread  on,  and 
t  really  think  she  believes  you  can  do  anything  you 
vs  ill,  just  because  you  're  good." 

Halleck  listened  in  silence.  He  was  indeed  helpless 
tc  be  otherwise  than  constant.  With  shame  and  grief 


456  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

in  his  heart,  he  could  only  vow  her  there  the  greater 
fealty  because  of  the  change  he  found  in  her. 

He  was  doomed  at  every  meeting  to  hear  her  glorify 
a  man  whom  he  believed  a  heartless  traitor,  to  plot 
with  her  for  the  rescue  from  imaginary  captivity  of 
the  wretch  who  had  cruelly  forsaken  her.  He  actually 
took  some  of  the  steps  she  urged ;  he  addressed  in- 
quiries to  the  insane  asylums,  far  and  near ;  and  in 
these  futile  endeavors,  made  only  with  the  desire  of 
failure,  his  own  reason  seemed  sometimes  to  waver. 
She  insisted  that  Atherton  should  know  all  the  steps 
they  were  taking;  and  his  sense  of  his  old  friend's 
exact  and  perfect  knowledge  of  his  motives  was  a 
keener  torture  than  even  her  father's  silent  scorn  of 
his  efforts,  or  the  worship  in  which  his  own  family 
held  him  for  them. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  467 


XXXVII 

HALLECK  had  come  home  in  broken  health,  and 
had  promised  his  family,  with  the  self-contempt  that 
depraves,  not  to  go  away  again,  since  the  change  had 
done  him  no  good.  There  was  no  talk  for  the  present 
of  his  trying  to  do  anything  but  to  get  well ;  and  for 
a  while,  under  the  strong  excitement,  he  seemed  to  be 
better.  But  suddenly  he  failed;  he  kept  his  room, 
and  then  he  kept  his  bed ;  and  the  weeks  stretched 
into  months  before  he  left  it. 

When  the  spring  weather  came,  he  was  able  to  go 
out  again,  and  he  spent  most  of  his  time  in  the  open 
air,  feeling  every  day  a  fresh  accession  of  strength. 
At  the  end  of  one  long  April  afternoon,  he  walked 
home  with  a  light  heart,  whose  right  to  rejoice  he 
would  not  let  his  conscience  question.  He  had  met 
Marcia  in  the  Public  Garden,  where  they  sat  down 
on  a  bench  and  talked,  while  her  father  and  the  little 
girl  wandered  away  in  the  restlessness  of  age  and  the 
restlessness  of  childhood. 

"  We  are  going  home  to  Equity  this  summer,"  she 
said,  "  and  perhaps  we  shall  not  come  back.  No,  we 
shall  not  come  back.  /  have  given  up.  I  have 
waited,  hoping  —  hoping.  But  now  I  know  that  it  is 
BO  use  waiting  any  longer :  he  is  dead"  She  spoke 
in  tearless  resignation,  and  the  peace  of  accepted 
widowhood  seemed  to  diffuse  itself  around  her. 

Her  words  repeated  themselves  to  Halleck,  as  he 
walked  homeward.  He  found  the  postman  at  the 
door  with  a  newspaper,  which  he  took  from  him  with 


458  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

a  smile  at  its  veteran  appearance,  and  its  probable 
adventures  in  reaching  him.  The  wrapper  seemed  to 
have  been  several  times  slipped  off,  and  then  slit  up ; 
it  was  tied  with  a  string,  now,  and  was  scribbled  with 
rejections  in  the  hands  of  various  Hallocks  and  Hal- 
letts,  one  of  whom  had  finally  indorsed  upon  it, "  Try 
97  Eumford  Street."  It  was  originally  addressed,  as 
he  made  out,  to  "  Mr.  B.  Halleck,  Boston,  Mass.,"  and 
he  carried  it  to  his  room  before  he  opened  it,  with  a 
careless  surmise  as  to  its  interest  for  him.  It  proved 
to  be  a  flimsy,  shabbily  printed  country  newspaper, 
with  an  advertisement  marked  in  one  corner. 


ss. 


State  of  Indiana,  ) 

Tecumseh  County  ) 

In  Tecumseh  Circuit  Court,  April  Term,  1879. 

BARTLEY   J.  HUBBARD  } 

vs.  >  Divorce.    No.  5793. 

MARCIA   G.   HUBBARD.  ) 

It  appearing  by  affidavit  this  day  filed  in  the  office  of  the 
Clerk  of  the  Tecumseh  Circuit  Court,  that  Marcia  G.  Hubbard, 
defendant  in  the  above  entitled  action  for  divorce  on  account 
of  abandonment  and  gross  neglect  of  duty,  is  a  non-resi- 
dent of  the  State  of  Indiana,  notice  of  the  pendency  of  such 
action  is  therefore  hereby  given  said  defendant  above  named, 
and  that  the  same  will  be  called  for  answer  on  the  llth  day  of 
April,  1879,  the  same  being  the  3d  judicial  day  of  the  April 
term  of  said  court,  for  said  year,  which  said  term  of  said  court 
will  begin  on  the  first  Monday  in  April,  1879,  and  will  be  held 
at  the  Court  House,  in  the  town  of  Tecumseh,  in  said  County 
and  State,  said  llth  day  of  April,  1879,  being  the  time  fixed 
by  said  plaintiff  by  indorsement  on  his  complaint,  at  which 
said  time  said  defendant  is  required  to  answer  herein. 

Witness  my  hand  and  the  seal  of  the  said  Court,  this  4th  daj 
If  March,  1879. 

AUGUSTUS  H.  HAWKINS, 
Clerk. 


•5  SEAL  V 

1   wrv-W  ' 


Milikin  &  Ayres,  Att'ys  for  Flff. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  459 

Halleck  read  this  advertisement  again  and  again, 
with  a  dull,  mechanical  action  of  the  brain.  He 
saw  the  familiar  names,  but  they  were  hopelessly 
estranged  by  their  present  relation  to  each  other ;  the 
legal  jargon  reached  no  intelligence  in  him  that  could 
grasp  its  purport. 

When  his  daze  began  to  yield,  he  took  evidence  of 
his  own  reality  by  some  such  tests  as  one  might  in 
waking  from  a  long  faint.  He  looked  at  his  hands, 
his  feet ;  he  rose  and  looked  at  his  face  in  the  glass. 
Turning  about,  he  saw  the  paper  where  he  had  left 
it  on  the  table ;  it  was  no  illusion.  He  picked  up 
the  cover  from  the  floor,  and  scanned  it  anew, 
trying  to  remember  the  handwriting  on  it,  to  make 
out  who  had  sent  this  paper  to  him,  and  why.  Then 
the  address  seemed  to  grow  into  something  different 
under  his  eye  :  it  ceased  to  be  his  name  ;  he  saw  now 
that  the  paper  was  directed  to  Mrs.  B.  Hubbard,  and 
that  by  a  series  of  accidents  and  errors  it  had  failed  to 
reach  her  in  its  wanderings,  and  by  a  final  blunder 
had  fallen  into  his  hands. 

Once  solved,  it  was  a  very  simple  affair,  and  he 
had  now  but  to  carry  it  to  her ;  that  was  very  simple, 
too.  Or  he  might  destroy  it ;  this  was  equally  simple. 
Her  words  repeated  themselves  once  more :  "  I  have 
given  up.  He  is  dead."  Why  should  he  break  the 
peace  she  had  found,  and  destroy  her  last  sad  illusion  ? 
Why  should  he  not  spare  her  the  knowledge  of  this 
final  wrong,  and  let  the  merciful  injustice  accomplish 
itself?  The  questions  seemed  scarcely  to  have  any 
personal  concern  for  Halleck ;  his  temptation  wore  a 
heavenly  aspect.  It  softly  pleaded  with  him  to  for- 
bear, like  something  outside  of  himself.  It  was  when 
he  began  to  resist  it  that  he  found  it  the  breath  in 
his  nostrils,  the  blood  in  his  veins.  Then  the  mask 
dropped,  and  the  enemy  of  souls  put  forth  his  power 
against  this  weak  spirit,  enfeebled  by  long  strife  and 
defeat  already  acknowledged. 


460  A  MODERN  LX  STANCE. 

At  the  end  Halleck  opened  his  door,  and  called, 
"  Olive,  Olive  ! "  in  a  voice  that  thrilled  the  girl  with 
strange  alarm  where  she  sat  in  her  own  room.  She 
came  running,  and  found  him  clinging  to  his  door- 
post, pale  and  tremulous.  "  I  want  you —  want  you 
to  help  me,"  he  gasped.  "  I  want  to  show  you  some- 
thing —  Look  here  !  " 

He  gave  her  the  paper,  which  he  had  kept  behind 
him,  clutched  fast  in  his  hand  as  if  he  feared  it  might 
somehow  escape  him  at  last,  and  staggered  away  to  a 
chair. 

His  sister  read  the  notice.  "Oh,  Ben!"  She 
dropped  her  hands  with  the  paper  in  them  before  her, 
a  gesture  of  helpless  horror  and  pity,  and  looked  at 
him.  "  Does  she  know  it  ?  Has  she  seen  it  ? " 

"  No  one  knows  it  but  you  and  I.  The  paper  was 
left  here  for  me  by  mistake.  I  opened  it  before  I  saw 
that  it  was  addressed  to  her." 

He  panted  forth  these  sentences  in  an  exhaustion 
that  would  have  terrified  her,  if  she  had  not  been  too 
full  of  indignant  compassion  for  Marcia  to  know  any- 
thing else.  She  tried  to  speak. 

"Don't  you  understand,  Olive?  This  is  the 
notice  that  the  law  requires  she  shall  have  to  come 
and  defend  her  cause,  and  it  has  been  sent  by  the 
clerk  of  the  court,  there,  to  the  address  that  villain 
must  have  given  in  the  knowledge  that  it  could  reach 
her  only  by  one  chance  in  ten  thousand." 

"  And  it  has  come  to  you  !  Oh,  Ben  !  Who  sent 
it  to  you  ? "  The  brother  and  sister  looked  at  each 
other,  but  neither  spoke  the  awestricken  thought  that 
was  in  both  their  hearts.  "  Ben,"  she  cried  in  a  solemn 
ecstasy  of  love  and  pride,  "  I  would  rather  be  you  this 

minnt.P.  than  anv  nt.hpr  man  in  f-.hp  wnrlrl  t" 


minute  than  any  other  man  in  the  world ! 

Don't ! "  pleaded  Halleck.   His  head  dropped,  and 
he  lifted  it  by  a  sudden  impulse.    "Olive!"  — 
the  impulse  failed,  and  he  only  said, "  I  want  you 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  461 

to  go  to  Atherton  with  me.  We  must  n't  lose  time. 
Have  Cyrus  get  a  carriage.  Go  down  and  tell  them 
we  're  going  out.  I  '11  be  ready  as  soon  as  you  are." 

But  when  she  called  to  him  from  below  that  the 
carriage  had  come  and  she  was  waiting,  he  would 
have  refused  to  go  with  her  if  he  durst.  He  no 
longer  wished  to  keep  back  the  fact,  but  he  felt  an 
invalid's  weariness  of  it,  a  sick  man's  inadequacy  to 
the  farther  demands  it  should  make  upon  him.  He 
crept  slowly  down  the  stairs,  keeping  a  tremulous 
hold  upon  the  rail ;  and  he  sank  with  a  sigh  against  the 
carriage  cushions,  answering  Olive's  eager  questions 
and  fervid  comments  with  languid  monosyllables. 

They  found  the  Athertons  at  coffee,  and  Clara 
would  have  them  come  to  the  dining-room  and  join 
them.  Halleck  refused  the  coffee,  and  while  Olive 
told  what  had  happened  he  looked  listlessly  about  the 
room,  aware  of  a  perverse  sympathy  with  Bartley, 
from  Hartley's  point  of  view :  Bartley  might  never 
have  gone  wrong  if  he  had  had  all  that  luxury ;  and 
why  should  he  not  have  had  it,  as  well  as  Atherton  I 
What  right  had  the  untempted  prosperity  of  such  a 
man  to  judge  the  guilt  of  such  men  as  himself  and 
Bartley  Hubbard  ? 

Olive  produced  the  newspaper  from  her  lap,  where 
she  kept  both  hands  upon  it,  and  opened  it  to  the  ad- 
vertisement in  dramatic  corroboration  of  what  she  had 
been  telling  Atherton.  He  read  it  and  passed  it  to 
Clara. 

"  When  did  this  come  to  you  ? " 

Olive  answered  for  him.  "  This  evening,  —  just 
now.  Did  n't  I  say  that  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Atherton ;  and  he  added  to  Halleck, 
gently :  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  Did  you  notice  the 
dates?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Halleck,  with  cold  refusal  of 
Atherton's  tone  of  reparation. 


462  A  MODEKN  INSTANCE. 

"The  cause  is  set  for  hearing  on  the  llth,"  said 
Atherton.  "This  is  the  8th.  The  time  is  very 
short." 

"  It 's  long  enough,"  said  Halleck,  wearily. 

"  Oh,  telegraph  ! "  cried  Clara.  "  Telegraph  them 
instantly  that  she  never  dreamt  of  leaving  himi 
Abandonment !  Oh,  if  they  only  knew  how  she  had 
been  slaving  her  fingers  off  for  the  last  two  years  to 
keep  a  home  for  him  to  come  back  to,  they  'd  give 
her  the  divorce  ! " 

Atherton  smiled  and  turned  to  Halleck :  u  Do 
you  know  what  their  law  is,  now  ?  It  was  changed 
two  years  ago." 

"  Yes,"  said  Halleck,  replying  to  the  question  Ath- 
erton had  asked  and  the  subtler  question  he  had 
looked,  "  I  have  read  up  the  whole  subject  since  I 
came  home.  The  divorce  is  granted  only  upon  proof, 
even  when  the  defendant  fails  to  appear,  and  if  this 
were  to  go  against  us,"  —  he  instinctively  identified 
himself  with  Marcia's  cause,  — "  we  can  have  the 
default  set  aside,  and  a  new  trial  granted,  for  cause 
shown." 

The  women  listened  in  awe  of  the  legal  phrases ; 
but  when  Atherton  rose,  and  asked,  "  Is  your  carriage 
here  ? "  his  wife  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Why,  where  are  you  going  ? "  she  demanded, 
anxiously. 

"  Not  to  Indiana,  immediately,"  answered  her  hus- 
band. "  We  're  first  going  to  Clover  Street,  to  see 
Squire  Gay  lord  and  Mrs.  Hubbard.  Better  let  me 
take  the  paper,  dear,"  he  said,  softly  withdrawing  it 
from  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  it 's  a  cruel,  cruel  law ! "  she  moaned,  de 
prived  of  this  moral  support.     "  To  suppose  that  such 
a  notice  as  this  is  sufficient !     Women  could  n't  have 
iuade  such  a  law." 

"  No,  women  only  profit  by  such  laws  after  they  'rf 


A   MODERN  INSTANCE.  463 

made:  they  work  bo*J<i  ways.  But  it's  not  such  a 
bad  law,  as  divorce  }aws  go.  We  do  worse,  now,  in 
some  New  England  States." 

They  found  the  Squire  alone  in  the  parlor,  and, 
with  a  few  words  of  explanation,  Atherton  put  the 
paper  in  his  hands,  and  he  read  the  notice  in  emo- 
tionless quiet.  Then  he  took  off  his  spectacles,  and 
shut  them  in  their  case,  which  he  put  back  into  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  "  This  is  all  right/'  he  said.  He 
cleared  his  throat,  and,  lifting  the  fierce  glimmer  of 
his  eyes  to  Atherton's,  he  asked,  drily,  "  What  is  the 
law,  at  present  ? " 

Atherton  briefly  recapitulated  the  points  as  he  had 
them  from  Halleck. 

"  That 's  good,"  said  the  old  man.  "  We  will  fight 
this,  gentlemen."  He  rose,  and  from  his  gaunt  height 
looked  down  on  both  of  them,  with  his  sinuous  lips 
set  in  a  bitter  smile.  "  Bartley  must  have  been  dis- 
appointed when  he  found  a  divorce  so  hard  to  get  in 
Indiana.  He  must  have  thought  that  the  old  law 
was  still  in  force  there.  He  's  not  the  fellow  to  swear 
to  a  lie  if  he  could  help  it ;  but  I  guess  he  expects  to 
get  this  divorce  by  perjury." 

Marcia  was  putting  little  Flavia  to  bed.  She  heard 
the  talking  below ;  she  thought  she  heard  Bartley's 
name.  She  ran  to  the  stairs,  and  came  hesitantly 
down,  the  old  wild  hope  and  wild  terror  fluttering  her 
pulse  and  taking  her  breath.  At  sight  of  the  three 
men,  apparently  in  council,  she  crept  toward  them, 
holding  out  her  hands  before  her  like  one  groping  his 
way.  'What  —  what  is  it?"  She  looked  from 
Atherton's  face  to  her  father's ;  the  old  man  stopped, 
and  tried  to  smile  reassuringly ;  he  tried  to  speak ; 
Atherton  turned  away. 

It  was  Halleck  who  came  forward,  and  took  her 
wandering  hands.  He  held  them  quivering  in  his 
own,  and  said  gravely  and  steadily,  using  her  name. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

for  the  first  time  in  the  deep  pity  which  cast  out  aH 
fear  and  shame,  "  Marcia,  we  have  found  your  hus- 
band." 

"  Dead  ? "  she  made  with  her  lips. 

"  He  is  alive,"  said  Halleck.  "  There  is  something 
in  this  paper  for  you  to  see,  —  something  you  must 

QOO " 

OOC  """" 

"  I  can  bear  anything  if  he  is  not  dead.  Where  — 
what  is  it  ?  Show  it  to  me  —  "  The  paper  shook  in 
the  hands  which  Halleck  released ;  her  eyes  strayed 
blindly  over  its  columns ;  he  had  to  put  his  finger  on 
the  place  before  she  could  find  it.  Then  her  tremor 
ceased,  and  she  seemed  without  breath  or  pulse 
while  she  read  it  through.  She  fetched  a  long,  deep 
sigh,  and  passed  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  as  if  to  clear 
them ;  staying  herself  unconsciously  against  Halleck's 
breast,  and  laying  her  trembling  arm  along  his  arm 
till  her  fingers  knit  themselves  among  his  fingers,  she 
read  it  a  second  time  and  a  third.  Then  she  dropped 
the  paper,  and  turned  to  look  up  at  him.  "  Why  ! " 
she  cried,  as  if  she  had  made  it  out  at  last,  while  an 
awful,  joyful  light  of  hope  flashed  into  her  face.  "  It  is 
a  mistake  !  Don't  you  see  ?  He  thinks  that  I  never 
came  back  !  He  thinks  that  I  meant  to  abandon  him. 
That  I  —  that  I  —  But  you  know  that  I  came  back, 
—  you  came  back  with  me !  Why,  I  was  n't  gone  an 
hour,  —  a  half-hour,  hardly.  Oh,  Bartley,  poor  Bart- 
ley!  He  thought  I  could  leave  him,  and  take  his 
child  from  him  ;  that  I  could  be  so  wicked,  so  heart- 
less —  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  Why,  I  only  stayed  away  that 
little  time  because  I  was  afraid  to  go  back  !  Don't 
you  remember  how  I  told  you  I  was  afraid,  and 
wanted  you  to  come  in  with  me  ? "  Her  exaltation 
broke  in  a  laugh.  "  But  we  can  explain  it  now,  and  it 
will  be  all  right.  He  will  see  —  he  will  understand  — « 
I  will  tell  him  just  how  it  was  —  Oh,  Flavia, 
tfe  've  found  papa,  we  've  found  papa  !  Quick  ! " 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  465 

She  whirled  away  toward  the  stairs,  but  her  father 
caught  her  by  the  arm.  "  Marcia ! "  he  shouted,  in 
his  old  raucous  voice,  "  You  've  got  to  understand  J 
This  "  —  he  hesitated,  as  if  running  over  all  terms  of 
opprobrium  in  his  mind,  and  he  resumed  as  if  he  had 
found  them  each  too  feeble  —  "  Bartley  has  n't  acted 
under  any  mistake." 

He  set  the  facts  before  her  with  merciless  clearness, 
and  she  listened  with  an  audible  catching  of  the 
breath  at  times,  while  she  softly  smoothed  her  fore- 
head with  her  left  hand.  "  I  don't  believe  it,"  she 
said  when  he  had  ended.  "  Write  to  him,  tell  him 
what  I  say,  and  you  will  see." 

The  old  man  uttered  something  between  a  groan  and 
a  curse.  "  Oh,  you  poor,  crazy  child  !  Can  nothing 
make  you  understand  that  Bartley  wants  to  get  rid  of 
you,  and  that  he  's  just  as  ready  for  one  lie  as  another? 
He  thinks  he  can  make  out  a  case  of  abandonment 
with  the  least  trouble,  and  so  he  accuses  you  of  that, 
but  he  'd  just  as  soon  accuse  you  of  anything  else. 
Write  to  him  ?  You  Ve  got  to  go  to  him  !  You  Ve 
got  to  go  out  there  and  fight  him  in  open  court,  with 
facts  and  witnesses.  Do  you  suppose  Bartley  Hubbard 
wants  any  explanation  from  you  ?  Do  you  think 
he  's  been  waiting  these  two  years  to  hear  that  you 
did  n't  really  abandon  him,  but  came  back  to  this 
house  an  hour  after  you  left  it,  and  that  you  Ve  waited 
for  him  here  ever  since  ?  When  he  knows  that,  will 
he  withdraw  this  suit  of  his  and  come  home  ?  He  '11 
want  the  proof,  and  the  way  to  do  is  to  go  out 
there  and  let  him  have  it.  If  I  had  him  on  the  stand 
for  five  minutes,"  said  the  old  man  between  his  set 
teeth, — "just  five  minutes, — I'd  undertake  to  convince 
him  from  his  own  lips  that  he  was  wrong  about  you  1 
But  I  am  afraid  he  wouldn't  mind  a  letter!  You 
think  I  say  so  because  I  hate  him  ;  and  you  don't  be- 
an 


466  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

lieve  me.  Well,  ask  either  of  these  gentlemen  here 
whether  I  'm  telling  you  the  truth." 

She  did  not  speak,  but,  with  a  glance  at  their  avert- 
ed faces,  she  sank  into  a  chair,  arid  passed  one  hand 
over  the  other,  while  she  drew  her  breath  in  long, 
shuddering  respirations,  and  stared  at  the  floor  with 
knit  brows  and  starting  eyes,  like  one  stifling  a  deadly 
pang.  She  made  several  attempts  to  speak  before  she 
could  utter  any  sound ;  then  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  her 
father's  :  "  Let  us  —  let  us  —  go  —  home  !  Oh,  let  us 
go  home  !  I  will  give  him  up.  I  had  given  him  up 
already;  I  told  you,"  she  said,  turning  to  Halleck, 
and  speaking  in  a  slow,  gentle  tone,  "  only  an  hour 
ago,  that  he  was  dead.  And  this  —  this  that 's  hap- 
pened, it  makes  no  difference.  Why  did  you  bring 
the  paper  to  me  when  you  knew  that  I  thought  he 
was  dead  ?" 

"  God  knows  I  wished  to  keep  it  from  you." 

"Well,  no  matter  now.  Let  him  go  free  if  he 
wants  to.  I  can't  help  it." 

"  You  can  help  it,"  interrupted  her  father.  "You  Ve 
got  the  facts  on  your  side,  and  you  Ve  got  the  wit- 
nesses ! " 

"  Would  you  go  out  with  me,  and  tell  him  that  I 
never  meant  to  leave  him  ?  "  she  asked  simply,  turn- 
ing to  Halleck.  "  You  —  and  Olive  ? " 

"  We  would  do  anything  for  you,  Marcia  !  " 

She  sat  musing,  and  drawing  her  hands  one  over 
the  other  again,  while  her  quivering  breath  came  and 
went  on  the  silence.  She  let  her  hands  fall  nerve- 
lessly on  her  lap.  "  I  can't  go ;  I  'm  too  weak ;  I 
could  n't  bear  the  journey.  No  !  "  She  shook  her 
head.  "I  can't  go!" 

" Marcia/'  began  her  father,  "it's  your  duty  to 

go:" 

"  Does  it  say  in  the  law  that  I  have  to  go,  if  I  don't 
eboos?  ?  "  she  asked  of  Halleck. 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  467 

"No,  you  certainly  need  not  go,  if  you  don't 
choose  ! " 

"  Then  I  will  stay.  Do  you  think  it 's  my  duty  ta 
go?"  she  asked,  referring  her  question  first  to  Hal- 
leek  and  then  to  Atherton.  She  turned  from  the 
silence  by  which  they  tried  to  leave  her  free.  "  I 
don't  care  for  my  duty,  any  more.  I  don't  want  to 
keep  him,  if  it's  so  that  he  —  left  me — and  —  and 
meant  it — and  he  doesn't — care  for  me  any  — 
more." 

"Care  for  you?  He  never  cared  for  you,  Marcia! 
And  you  may  be  sure  he  does  n't  care  for  you  now." 

"  Then  let  him  go,  and  let  us  go  home." 

"Very  well!"  said  the  old  man.  "We  will  go 
home,  then,  and  before  the  week 's  out  Bartley  Hub- 
bard  will  be  a  perjured  bigamist." 

"  Bigamist  ?  "    Marcia  leaped  to  her  feet. 

"  Yes,  bigamist !  Don't  you  suppose  he  had  his 
eye  on  some  other  woman  out  there  before  he  began 
this  suit  ? " 

The  languor  was  gone  from  Marcia's  limbs.  As  she 
confronted  her  father,  the  wonderful  likeness  in  the 
outline  of  their  faces  appeared.  His  was  dark  and 
wrinkled  with  age,  and  hers  was  gray  with  the  anger 
that  drove  the  blood  back  to  her  heart,  but  one  im- 
pulse animated  those  fierce  profiles,  and  the  hoarded 
hate  in  the  old  man's  soul  seemed  to  speak  in  Marcia's 
thick  whisper,  "  I  will  go." 


468  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 


XXXVIII. 

THE  Athertons  sat  late  over  their  breakfast  in  the 
luxurious  dining-room  where  the  April  sun  came  in 
at  the  windows  overlooking  the  Back  Bay,  and  com- 
manding at  that  stage  of  the  tide  a  long  stretch  of 
shallow  with  a  flight  of  white  gulls  settled  upon  it. 

They  had  let  Clara's  house  on  the  hill,  and  she  had 
bought  another  on  the  new  land ;  she  insisted  upon 
the  change,  not  only  because  everybody  was  leaving 
the  hill,  but  also  because,  as  she  said,  it  would  seern 
too  much  like  taking  Mr.  Atherton  to  board,  if  they 
went  to  housekeeping  where  she  had  always  lived ; 
she  wished  to  give  him  the  effect  before  the  world  of 
having  brought  her  to  a  house  of  his  own.  She  had 
even  furnished  it  anew  for  the  most  part,  and  had 
banished  as  far  as  possible  the  things  that  remind- 
ed her  of  the  time  when  she  was  not  his  wife.  He 
humored  her  in  this  fantastic  self-indulgence,  and  phi- 
losophized her  wish  to  give  him  the  appearance  of 
having  the  money,  as  something  orderly  in  its  origin, 
and  not  to  be  deprecated  on  other  grounds,  since 
probably  it  deceived  nobody.  They  lived  a  very 
tranquil  life,  and  Clara  had  no  grief  of  her  own  un- 
less it  was  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  great  things 
she  could  do  for  him.  One  day  when  she  whimsi- 
cally complained  of  this,  he  said  :  "  I  'm  very  glad  of 
that.  Let 's  try  to  be  equal  to  the  little  sacrifices  we 
must  make  for  each  other ;  they  will  be  quite  enough. 
Many  a  woman  who  would  be  ready  to  die  for  her 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  469 

husband  makes  him  wretched  because  she  won't  liva 
for  him.  Don't  despise  the  day  of  small  things." 

"  Yes,  but  when  every  day  seems  the  day  of  small 
things  ! "  she  pouted. 

"  Every  day  is  the  day  of  small  things,"  said  Ather- 
ton,  "  with  people  who  are  happy.  We  're  never  so 
prosperous  as  when  we  can't  remember  what  happened 
last  Monday." 

"  Oh,  but  I  can't  bear  to  be  always  living  in  the 
present." 

"  It 's  not  so  spacious,  I  know,  as  either  the  past  or 
the  future,  but  it 's  all  we  have." 

"  There ! "  cried  Clara.  "  That 's  fatalism  !  It 's 
worse,  than  fatalism  ! " 

"  And  is  fatalism  so  very  bad  ? "  asked  her  hus- 
band. 

"  It 's  Mahometanism  ! " 

"  Well,  it  is  n't  necessarily  a  plurality  of  wives,"  re~ 
turned  Atherton,  in  subtle  anticipation  of  her  next 
point.  "  And  it 's  really  only  another  name  for  resig- 
nation, which  is  certainly  a  good  thing." 

"  Eesignation  ?    Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that ! " 

Atherton  laughed,  and  put  his  arm  round  her 
waist :  an  argument  that  no  woman  can  answer  in  a 
man  she  loves ;  it  seems  to  deprive  her  of  her  reason- 
ing faculties.  In  the  atmosphere  of  affection  which  she 
breathed,  she  sometimes  feared  that  her  mental  powers 
were  really  weakening.  As  a  girl  she  had  lived  a  life 
full  of  purposes,  which,  if  somewhat  vague,  were  un- 
questionably large.  She  had  then  had  great  interests, 
—  art,  music,  literature, —  the  symphony  concerts,  Mr. 
Hunt's  classes,  the  novels  of  George  Eliot,  and  Mr 
Fiske's  lectures  on  the  cosmic  philosophy;  and  she 
had  always  felt  that  they  expanded  and  elevated  ex- 
istence. In  her  moments  of  question  as  to  the  shape 
which  her  life  had  taken  since,  she  tried  to  think 
whether  the  happiness  which  seemed  so  little  depend- 


470  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

ent  on  these  things  was  not  beneath  the  demands  of 
a  spirit  which  was  probably  immortal  and  was  cer- 
tainly cultivated.  They  all  continued  to  be  part  of 
her  life,  but  only  a  very  small  part ;  and  she  would 
have  liked  to  ask  her  husband  whether  his  influence 
upon  her  had  been  wholly  beneficial.  She  was  not 
sure  that  it  had ;  but  neither  was  she  sure  that  it  had 
not.  She  had  never  fully  consented  to  the  distinct- 
ness with  which  he  classified  all  her  emotions  and 
ideas  as  those  of  a  woman  :  in  her  heart  she  doubted 
whether  a  great  many  of  them  might  not  be  those  of 
a  man,  though  she  had  never  found  any  of  them  ex- 
actly like  his.  She  could  not  complain  that  he  did 
not  treat  her  as  an  equal ;  he  deferred  to  her,  and  de- 
pended upon  her  good  sense  to  an  extent  that  some- 
times alarmed  her,  for  she  secretly  knew  that  she 
had  a  very  large  streak  of  silliness  in  her  nature. 
He  seemed  to  tell  her  everything,  and  to  be  greatly 
ruled  by  her  advice,  especially  in  matters  of  business  ; 
but  she  could  not  help  observing  that  he  often  kept 
matters  involving  certain  moral  questions  from  her 
till  the  moment  for  deciding  them  was  past.  When 
she  accused  him  of  this,  he  confessed  that  it  was  so ; 
but  defended  himself  by  saying  that  he  was  afraid  her 
conscience  might  sway  him  against  his  judgment. 

Clara  now  recurred  to  these  words  of  his  as  she  sat 
looking  at  him  through  her  tears  across  the  breakfast 
table.  "  Was  that  the  reason  you  never  told  me  about 
poor  Ben  before  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  I  expect  you  to  justify  me.  What  good 
would  it  have  done  to  tell  you  ? " 

"  I  could  have  told  you,  at  least,  that,  if  Ben  had 
any  such  feeling  as  that,  it  was  n't  his  fault  alto- 
gether." 

"  But  you  would  n't  have  believed  that,  Clara,"  said 
Atherton.  "  You  know  that,  whatever  that  poor  cres* 
ture's  faults  are,  coquetry  is  n't  one  of  them." 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  471 

Clara  only  admitted  the  fact  passively.  "  How  did 
he  excuse  himself  for  coming  back  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  did  n't  excuse  himself ;  he  defied  himself.  We 
had  a  stormy  talk,  and  he  ended  by  denying  that  he 
had  any  social  duty  in  the  matter." 

"  And  I  think  he  was  quite  right ! "  Clara  flashed 
out.  "  It  was  his  own  affair." 

"  He  said  he  had  a  concrete  purpose,  and  would  n't- 
listen  to  abstractions.  Yes,  he  talked  like  a  woman. 
But  you  know  he  was  n't  right,  Clara,  though  you  talk 
like  a  woman,  too.  There  are  a  great  many  things 
that  are  not  wrong  except  as  they  wrong  others.  I  've 
no  doubt  that,  as  compared  with  the  highest  love  her 
husband  ever  felt  for  her,  Ben's  passion  was  as  light 
to  darkness.  But  if  he  'could  only  hope  for  its  return 
through  the  perversion  of  her  soul,  —  through  teaching 
her  to  think  of  escape  from  her  marriage  by  a  divorce, 

—  then  it  was  a  crime  against  her  and  against  so- 
ciety." 

"  Ben  could  n't  do  such  a  thing ! " 

"  No,  he  could  only  dream  of  doing  it.  When  it 
came  to  the  attempt,  everything  that  was  good  in  him 
revolted  against  it  and  conspired  to  make  him  help 
her  in  the  efforts  that  would  defeat  his^  hopes  if  they 
succeeded.  It  was  a  ghastly  ordeal,  but  it  was  sub- 
lime ;  and  when  the  climax  came,  —  that  paper, 
which  he  had  only  to  conceal  for  a  few  days  or  weeks, 

—  he  was  equal  to  the  demand  upon  him.     But  sup- 
pose a  man  of  his  pure  training  and  traditions  had 
yielded  to  temptation,  —  suppose  he  had  so  far  de- 
praved himself  that  he  could  have  set  about  persuad- 
ing her  that  she  owed  no  allegiance  to  her  husband, 
and  might  rightfully  get  a  divorce  and  marry  him,  — 
what  a  ruinous  blow  it  would  have  been  to  all  who 
knew  of  it !     It  would  have  disheartened  those  who 
abhorred  it,  and   encouraged  those  who  wanted  to 
profit  by  such  an  example.     It  does  n't  matter  much. 


472  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

socially,  what  undisciplined  people  like  Bartley  and 
Marcia  Hubbard  do ;  but  if  a  man  like  Ben  Halleck 
goes  astray,  it 's  calamitous ;  it '  confounds  the  human 
conscience/  as  Victor  Hugo  says.  All  that  careful 
nurture  in  the  right  since  he  could  speak,  all  that  life- 
long decency  of  thought  and  act,  that  noble  ideal  of 
unselfishness  and  responsibility  to  others,  trampled 
under  foot  and  spit  upon,  —  it 's  horrible  ! " 

"Yes,"  answered  Clara,  deeply  moved,  even  as  a 
woman  may  be  in  a  pretty  breakfast-room,  "  and  such 
a  good  soul  as  Ben  always  was  naturally.  Will  you 
have  some  more  tea  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  take  another  cup.  But  as  for  natural 
goodness  —  " 

"  Wait !     I  will  ring  for  some  hot  water." 

When  the  maid  had  appeared,  disappeared,  reap- 
peared, and  finally  vanished,  Atherton  resumed.  "  The 
natural  goodness  does  n't  count.  The  natural  man 
is  a  wild  beast,  and  his  natural  goodness  is  the 
amiability  of  a  beast  basking  in  the  sun  when  his 
stomach  is  full.  The  Hubbards  were  full  of  natural 
goodness,  I  dare  say,  when  they  did  n't  happen  to 
cross  each  other's  wishes.  No,  it 's  the  implanted  good- 
ness that  saves,  —  the  seed  of  righteousness  treasured 
from  generation  to  generation,  and  carefully  watched 
and  tended  by  disciplined  fathers  and  mothers  in  the 
hearts  where  they  have  dropped  it.  The  flower  of 
this  implanted  goodness  is  what  we  call  civilization, 
the  condition  of  general  uprightness  that  Halleck 
declared  he  owed  no  allegiance  to.  But  he  was  better 
than  his  word." 

Atherton  lifted,  with  his  slim,  delicate  hand,  the 
cup  of  translucent  china,  and  drained  off  the  fragrant 
Souchong,  sweetened,  and  tempered  with  Jersey  cream 
to  perfection.  Something  in  the  sight  went  like  a 
pang  to  his  wife's  heart.  "  Ah ! "  she  said,  "  it  is  easy 
enough  for  us  to  condemn.  We  have  everything  we 
want  1 " 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  473 

*  I  don't  forget  that,  Clara,"  said  Atherton,  gravely. 
*  Sometimes  when  I  think  of  it,  I  am  ready  to  renounce 
all  judgment  of  others.  The  consciousness  of  our 
comfort,  our  luxury,  almost  paralyzes  me  at  those 
times,  and  I  am  ashamed  and  afraid  even  of  our  hap- 
piness." 

"  Yes,  what  right,"  pursued  Clara,  rebelliously, 
"  have  we  to  be  happy  and  united,  and  these  wretched 
creatures  so  —  " 

"  No  right,  —  none  in  the  world !  But  somehow  the 
effects  follow  their  causes.  In  some  sort  they  chose 
misery  for  themselves,  —  we  make  our  own  hell  in 
this  life  and  the  next,  —  or  it  was  chosen  for  them  by 
undisciplined  wills  that  they  inherited.  In  the  long 
run  their  fate  must  be  a  just  one." 

"  Ah,  but  I  have  to  look  at  things  in  the  short  run, 
and  I  can't  see  any  justice  in  Marcia's  husband  using 
her  so  !  "  cried  Clara.  "  Why  should  n't  you  use  me 
badly  ?  I  don't  believe  that  any  woman  ever  meant 
better  by  her  husband  than  she  did." 

"  Oh,  the  meaning  does  n't  count !  It 's  our  deeds 
that  judge  us.  He  is  a  thoroughly  bad  fellow,  but 
you  may  be  sure  she  has  been  to  blame.  Though  I 
don't  blame  the  Hubbards,  either  of  them,  so  much  as 
I  blame  Halleck.  He  not  only  had  everything  he 
wished,  but  the  training  to  know  what  he  ought  to 
wish." 

"  I  don't  know  about  his  having  everything.  I 
think  Ben  must  have  been  disappointed,  some  time," 
said  Clara,  evasively. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  replied  Atherton,  with  the 
contented  husband's  indifference  to  sentimental  griev- 
ances. 

Clara  did  not  speak  for  some  moments,  and  then 
she  summed  up  a  turmoil  of  thoughts  in  a  profound 
eigh.  "  Well,  I  don't  like  it !  I  thought  it  was  bad 
enough  having  a  man,  even  on  the  outskirts  of  my 


474  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

acquaintance,  abandon  his  wife ;  but  now  Ben  Hal« 
leek,  who  has  been  like  a  brother  to  me,  to  have  him 
mixed  up  in  such  an  affair  in  the  way  he  is,  it 's  in- 
tolerable ! " 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Atherton,  playing  with 
his  spoon.  "  You  know  how  I  hate  anything  that  sins 
against  order,  and  this  whole  thing  is  disorderly.  It 's 
intolerable,  as  you  say.  But  we  must  bear  our 
share  of  it.  We're  all  bound  together.  No  one 
sins  or  suffers  to  himself  in  a  civilized  state,  —  or 
religious  state  ;  it 's  the  same  thing.  Every  link  in 
the  chain  feels  the  effect  of  the  violence,  more  or  less 
intimately.  We  rise  or  fall  together  in  Christian 
society.  It 's  strange  that  it  should  be  so  hard  to 
realize  a  thing  that  every  experience  of  life  teaches. 
We  keep  on  thinking  of  offences  against  the  common 
good  as  if  they  were  abstractions  ! " 

"  Well,  one  thing,"  said  Clara,  "  I  shall  always  think 
unnecessarily  shocking  and  disgraceful  about  it.  And 
that  is  Ben's  going  out  with  her  on  this  journey.  I 
don't  see  how  you  could  allow  that,  Eustace." 

"  Yes,"  said  Atherton,  after  a  thoughtful  silence, "  it 
is  shocking.  The  only  consolation  is  that  it  is  not  un- 
necessarily shocking.  I  'm  afraid  that  it 's  necessarily 
so.  When  any  disease  of  soul  or  body  has  gone  far 
enough,  it  makes  its  own  conditions,  and  other  things 
must  adjust  themselves  to  it.  Besides,  no  one  knows 
the  ugliness  of  the  situation  but  Halleck  himself.  I 
don't  see  how  I  could  have  interfered ;  and  upon  the 
whole  I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  have  interfered,  if 
I  could.  She  would  be  helpless  without  him ;  and  he 
can  get  no  harm  from  it.  In  fact,  it 's  part  of  his 
expiation,  which  must  have  begun  as  soon  as  he  met 
her  again  after  he  came  home." 

Clara  was  convinced,  but  not  reconciled.  She  only 
uaid,  "  I  don't  like  it." 

Her  husband  did  not  reply;  he  continued  mus- 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  475 

mgly :  %{ When  the  old  man  made  that  final  appeal  to 
her  jealousy,  —  all  that  there  is  really  left,  probably, 
of  her  love  for  her  husband,  —  and  she  responded 
with  a  face  as  wicked  as  his,  I  could  n't  help  looking 
atHalleck  —  " 

"  Oh,  poor  Ben !  How  did  he  take  it  ?  It  must 
have  scared,  it  must  have  disgusted  him  ! " 

"  That 's  what  I  had  expected.  But  there  was 
nothing  in  his  face  but  pity.  He  understood,  and  he 
pitied  her.  That  was  all." 

Clara  rose,  and  turned  to  the  window,  where  she 
remained  looking  through  her  tears  at  the  gulls  on 
the  shallow.  It  seemed  much  more  than  twenty-four 
hours  since  she  had  taken  leave  of  Marcia  and  the  rest  at 
the  station,  and  saw  them  set  out  on  their  long  journey 
with  its  uncertain  and  unimaginable  end.  She  had 
deeply  sympathized  with  them  all,  but  at  the  same 
time  she  had  felt  very  keenly  the  potential  scandalous- 
ness of  the  situation ;  she  shuddered  inwardly  when 
she  thought  what  if  people  knew  ;  she  had  always  re- 
volted from  contact  with  such  social  facts  as  their 
errand  involved.  She  got  Olive  aside  for  a  moment, 
and  asked  her,  "  Don't  you  hate  it,  Olive  ?  Did  you 
ever  dream  of  being  mixed  up  in  such  a  thing  ?  I 
should  die,  —  simply  die  !  " 

"  I  shall  not  think  of  dying,  unless  we  fail,"  an- 
swered Olive.  "  And,  as  for  hating  it,  I  have  n't  con- 
sulted my  feelings  a  great  deal ;  but  I  rather  think  I 
like  it."  ' 

"  Like  going  out  to  be  a  witness  in  an  Indiana  di- 
vorce case ! " 

"  I  don't  look  at  it  in  that  way,  Clara.  It 's  a  cru- 
eade  to  me  ;  it 's  a  holy  war ;  it 's  the  cause  of  an  in- 
nocent woman  against  a  wicked  oppression.  I  know 
how  you  would  feel  about  it,  Clara ;  but  I  never  was 
as  respectable  as  you  are,  and  I  'm  quite  satisfied  to 
do  what  Ben,  and  father,  and  Mr  Athertou  approve.. 


476  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

They  think  it's  my  duty,  and  I  am  glad  to  go,  and  to  be 
of  all  the  use  I  can.  But  you  shall  have  my  heartfelt 
sympathy  through  all,  Clara,  for  your  involuntary  ac- 
quaintance with  our  proceedings." 

"  Olive  !  You  know  that  I  'm  proud  of  your  courage 
and  Ben's  goodness,  and  that  I  fully  appreciate  the 
sacrifice  you  're  making.  And  I  'm  not  ashamed  of 
your  business :  I  think  it 's  grand  and  sublime,  and  I 
would  just  as  soon  scream  it  out  at  the  top  of  my 
voice,  right  here  in  the  Albany  depot." 

"  Don 't,"  said  Olive.  "  It  would  frighten  the  child." 
She  had  Flavia  by  the  hand,  and  she  made  the 
little  girl  her  special  charge  throughout  the  journey. 
The  old  Squire  seemed  anxious  to  be  alone,  and  he 
restlessly  escaped  from  Marcia's  care.  He  sat  all  the 
first  day  apart,  chewing  upon  some  fragment  of  wood 
that  he  had  picked  up,  and  now  and  then  putting  up 
a  lank  hand  to  rasp  his  bristling  jaw ;  glancing  fur- 
tively at  people  who  passed  him,  and  lapsing  into  his 
ruminant  abstraction.  He  had  been  vexed  that  they 
did  not  start  the  night  before ;  and  every  halt  the 
train  made  visibly  afflicted  him.  He  would  not  leave 
his  place  to  get  anything  to  eat  when  they  stopped 
for  refreshment,  though  he  hungrily  devoured  the 
lunch  that  Marcia  brought  into  the  car  for  him. 
At  New  York  he  was  in  a  tumult  of  fear  lest  they 
should  lose  the  connecting  train  on  the  Pennsylvania 
Koad;  and  the  sigh  of  relief  with  which  he  sank 
into  his  seat  in  the  sleeping-car  expressed  the  suffer- 
ing he  had  undergone.  He  said  he  was  not  tired,  but 
he  went  to  bed  early,  as  if  to  sleep  away  as  much  of 
the  time  as  he  could. 

When  Halleck  came  into  their  car,  the  next  morn- 
ing, he  found  Marcia  and  her  father  sitting  together, 
and  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  wooded  slopes 
of  the  Alleghanies  through  which  the  train  was  run- 
ning. The  old  man's  impatience  had  relaxed ;  he  let 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  477 

Marcia  lay  her  hand  on  his,  and  he  answered  her  with 
quiet  submission,  when  she  spoke  now  and  then  of 
the  difference  between  these  valleys,  where  the  wild 
rhododendrons  were  growing,  and  the  frozen  hollows 
of  the  hills  at  home,  which  must  be  still  choked  with 
snow. 

"But,  oh!  how  much  I  would  rather  see  them!* 
she  said  at  last  with  a  homesick  throb. 

"  Well,"  he  assented,  "  we  can  go  right  back  — 
afterwards." 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"  Well,  sir,  good  morning,"  said  the  old  man  to 
Halleck,  "  we  are  getting  along,  sir.  At  this  rate,  un- 
less our  calculations  were  mistaken,  we  shall  be  there 
by  midnight.  We  are  on  time,  the  porter  tells  me." 

"  Yes,  we  shall  soon  be  at  Pittsburg,"  said  Halleck, 
and  he  looked  at  Marcia,  who  turned  away  her  face. 
She  had  not  spoken  of  the  object  of  the  journey  to 
him  since  they  had  left  Boston,  and  it  had  not  been  so 
nearly  touched  by  either  of  them  before. 

He  could  see  that  she  recoiled  from  it,  but  the  old 
man,  once  having  approached  it,  could  not  leave  it. 
"  If  everything  goes  well,  we  shall  have  our  grip  on 
that  fellow's  throat  in  less  than  forty-eight  hours." 
He  looked  down  mechanically  at  his  withered  hands, 
lean  and  yellow  like  the  talons  of  a  bird,  and  lifted 
his  accipitral  profile  with  a  predatory  alertness.  "  I 
did  n't  sleep  very  well  the  last  part  of  the  night,  but  I 
thought  it  all  out.  I  sha'n't  care  whether  I  get  there 
before  or  after  judgment  is  rendered;  all  I  want  is  to 
get  there  before  he  has  a  chance  to  clear  out.  I  think 
I  shall  be  able  to  convince  Bartley  Hubbard  that 
there  is  a  God  in  Israel  yet !  Don't  you  be  anxious, 
Marcia ;  I  Ve  got  this  thing  at  my  fingers'  ends,  as  clear 
as  a  bell.  I  intend  to  give  Bartley  a  little  surprise !  " 

Marcia  kept  her  face  averted,  and  Halleck  relin- 
quished his  purpose  of  sitting  down  with  them,  and 


478  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

went  forward  to  the  state-room  that  Marcia  and  Olive 
had  occupied  with  the  little  girl.  He  tapped  on  the 
door,  and  found  his  sister  dressed,  but  the  child  still 
asleep. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Ben  ? "  she  asked.  "  You 
don't  look  well.  You  ought  n't  to  have  undertaken 
this  journey." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  all  right.  But  I  Ve  been  up  a  good  while, 
with  nothing  to  eat.  That  old  man  is  terribly 
Olive ! " 

"  Her  father  ?     Yes,  he 's  a  terrible  old  man  ! " 

"It  sickened  me  to  hear  him  talk,  just  now, — 
throwing  out  his  threats  of  vengeance  against  Hubbard. 
It  made  me  feel  a  sort  of  sympathy  for  that  poor  dog. 
Do  you  suppose  she  has  the  same  motive  ?  I  could  n't 
forgive  her ! "  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  passionate  weak- 
ness. "  I  could  n't  forgive  myself ! " 

"  We  Ve  got  nothing  to  do  with  their  motive,  Ben. 
We  are  to  be  her  witnesses  for  justice  against  a  wicked 
wrong.  I  don't  believe  in  special  providences,  of 
course  ;  but  it  does  seem  as  if  we  had  been  called  to 
this  work,  as  mother  would  say.  Your  happening  to 
go  home  with  her,  that  night,  and  then  that  paper 
happening  to  come  to  you,  —  does  n't  it  look  like  it  ? " 

"  It  looks  like  it,  yes." 

"  We  could  n't  have  refused  to  come.  That 's  what 
consoles  me  for  being  here  this  minute.  I  put  on  a 
bold  face  with  Clara  Atherton,  yesterday  morning  at 
the  depot ;  but  I  was  in  a  cold  chill,  all  the  time.  Our 
coming  off,  in  this  way,  on  such  an  errand,  is  some- 
thing so  different  from  the  rest  of  our  whole  life) 
And  I  do  like  quiet,  and  orderly  ways,  and  all  that  we 
call  respectability  !  I  've  been  thinking  that  the  trial 
will  be  reported  by  some  such  interviewing  wretch 
as  Bartley  himself,  and  that  we  shall  figure  in  the  news- 
papers. But  I  Ve  concluded  that  we  must  n't  care. 
It 's  right,  and  we  must  do  it.  I  don't  shut  my  eyes 


J   MODERN  INSTANCE.  479 

lo  the  kind  of  people  we  're  mixed  up  with.  I  pity 
Marcia,  and  I  love  her  —  poor,  helpless,  unguided 
thing  !  —  but  that  old  man  is  terrible  !  He 's  as  cruel 
as  the  grave  where  he  thinks  he 's  been  wronged,  and 
crueller  where  he  thinks  she 's  been  wronged.  You  Ve 
forgiven  so  much,  Ben,  that  you  can't  understand  a 
man  who  forgives  nothing ;  but  /can,  for  I  'm  a  pretty 
good  hater,  myself.  And  Marcia 's  just  like  her  father, 
at  times.  I  Ve  seen  her  look  at  Clara  Atherton  as  if 
she  could  kill  her  ! " 

The  little  girl  stirred  in  her  berth,  and  then  lifted 
herself  on  her  hands,  and  stared  round  at  them 
through  her  tangled  golden  hair.  "Is  it  morning, 
yet  ? "  she  asked  sleepily.  "  Is  it  to-morrow  ? " 

"Yes;  it's  to-morrow,  Flavia,"  said  Olive.  "Do 
you  want  to  get  up  ? " 

"  And  is  next  day  the  day  after  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  it 's  only  one  day  till  I  shall  see  papa.  That's 
what  mamma  said.  Where  is  mamma  ?  "  asked  the 
child,  rising  to  her  knees,  and  sweeping  back  her  hair 
from  her  face  with  either  hand. 

"  I  will  go  and  send  her  to  you,"  said  Halleck. 

At  Pittsburg  the  Squire  was  eager  for  his  break- 
fast, and  made  amends  for  his  fast  of  the  day  before. 
He  ate  grossly  of  the  heterogeneous  abundance  of  the 
railroad  restaurant,  and  drank  two  cups  of  coffee  that 
in  his  thin,  native  air  would  have  disordered  his  pulse 
for  a  week.  But  he  resumed  his  journey  with  a  tran- 
quil strength  that  seemed  the  physical  expression  of 
a  mind  clear  and  content.  He  was  willing  and  even 
anxious  to  tell  Halleck  what  his  theories  and  plana 
were ;  but  the  young  man  shrank  from  knowing  them. 
He  wished  only  to  know  whether  Marcia  were  privj 
to  them,  and  this,  too,  he  shrank  from  knowing. 


480  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 


XXXIX. 

THEY  left  Pittsburg  under  the  dun  pall  of  smoke 
that  hangs  perpetually  over  the  city,  and  ran  out  of  a 
world  where  the  earth  seemed  turned  to  slag  and  cin- 
ders, and  the  coal  grime  blackened  even  the  sheath- 
ing from  which  the  young  leaves  were  unfolding  their 
vivid  green.  Their  train  twisted  along  the  banks  of 
the  Ohio,  and  gave  them  now  and  then  a  reach  of 
the  stream,  forgetful  of  all  the  noisy  traffic  that  once 
fretted  its  waters,  and  losing  itself  in  almost  primitive 
wildness  among  its  softly  rounded  hills.  It  is  n 
beautiful  land,  and  it  had,  even  to  their  loath  eyes,  a 
charm  that  touched  their  hearts.  They  were  on  the 
borders  of  the  illimitable  West,  whose  lands  stretch 
like  a  sea  beyond  the  hilly  Ohio  shore ;  but  as  yet  this 
vastness,  which  appalls  and  wearies  all  but  the  born 
Westerner,  had  not  burst  upon  them ;  they  were  still 
among  heights  and  hollows,  and  in  a  milder  and  softer 
New  England. 

"  I  have  a  strange  feeling  about  this  journey," 
said  Marcia,  turning  from  the  window  at  last,  and 
facing  Halleck  on  the  opposite  seat.  "  I  want  it  to 
be  over,  and  yet  I  am  glad  of  every  little  stop.  I  feel 
like  some  one  that  has  been  called  to  a  death-bed, 
and  is  hurrying  on  and  holding  back  with  all  her 
might,  at  the  same  time.  I  shall  have  no  peace  till  I 
am  there,  and  then  shall  I  have  peace  ? "  She  fixed 
her  eyes  imploringly  on  his.  "  Say  something  to  me, 
if  you  can !  What  do  you  think  ? " 

"  Whether  you  will  —  succeed  ? "     He   was   con- 


A    MODERN  INSTANCE.  481 

founding  what  he  knew  of  her  father's  feeling  with 
what  he  had  feared  of  hers. 

"Do  you  mean  about  the  lawsuit?  I  don't  care 
for  that !  Do  you  think  he  will  hate  me  when  he 
sees  me  ?  Do  you  think  he  will  believe  me  when  I 
tell  him  that  I  never  meant  to  leave  him,  and  that 
[  'm  sorry  for  what  I  did  to  drive  him  away  ? " 

She  seemed  to  expect  him  to  answer,  and  he 
answered  as  well  as  he  could :  "  He  ought  to  believe 
that,  —  yes,  he  must  believe  it." 

"  Then  all  the  rest  may  go,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
care  who  gains  the  case.  But  if  he  should  n't  believe 
me,  —  if  he  should  drive  me  away  from  him,  as  I 
drove  him  from  rne  —  "  She  held  her  breath  in  the 
terror  of  such  a  possibility,  and  an  awe  of  her  igno- 
rance crept  over  Halleck.  Apparently  she  had  not 
understood  the  step  that  Bartley  had  taken,  except 
as  a  stage  in  their  quarrel  from  which  they  could  both 
retreat,  if  they  would,  as  easily  as  from  any  other 
dispute ;  she  had  not  realized  it  as  a  final,  an  almost 
irrevocable  act  on  his  part,  which  could  only  be  met 
by  reprisal  on  hers.  All  those  points  of  law  which 
had  been  so  sharply  enforced  upon  her  must  have 
fallen  blunted  from  her  longing  to  be  at  one  with 
him ;  she  had,  perhaps,  not  imagined  her  defence  in 
open  court,  except  as  a  sort  of  public  reconciliation. 

But  at  another  time  she  recurred  to  her  wrongs  in 
all  the  bitterness  of  her  father's  vindictive  purpose. 
A  young  couple  entered  the  car  at  one  of  the  country 
stations,  and  the  bride  made  haste  to  take  off  her 
white  bonnet,  and  lay  her  cheek  on  her  husband's 
shoulder,  while  he  passed  his  arm  round  her  silken 
waist,  and  drew  her  close  to  him  on  the  seat,  in  the 
loving  rapture  which  is  no  wise  inconvenienced  by 
publicity  on  our  railroad  trains.  Indeed,  after  the  first 
general  recognition  of  their  condition,  no  one  noticed 
them  except  Marcia,  who  seemed  fascinated  by  the 

31 


482  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

spectacle  of  their  unsophisticated  happiness ;  it  must 
have  recalled  the  blissful  abandon  of  her  own  wed- 
ding journey  to  her.  "  Oh,  poor  fool ! "  she  said  to 
Olive.  "  Let  her  wait,  and  it  will  not  be  long  before 
she  will  know  that  she  had  better  lean  on  the  empty 
air  than  on  him.  Some  day,  he  will  let  her  fall  to 
the  ground,  and  when  she  gathers  herself  up  all 
bruised  and  bleeding —  But  he  has  n't  got  the  all- 
believing  simpleton  to  deal  with  that  he  used  to  have  ; 
and  he  shall  pay  me  back  for  all  —  drop  by  drop,  and 
ache  for  ache  !  " 

She  was  in  that  strange  mental  condition  into 
which  women  fall  who  brood  long  upon  opposing 
purposes  and  desires.  She  wished  to  be  reconciled,  and 
she  wished  to  be  revenged,  and  she  recurred  to  either 
wish  for  the  time  as  vehemently  as  if  the  other  did 
not  exist  She  took  Flavia  on  her  knee,  and  began 
to  prattle  to  her  of  seeing  papa  to-morrow,  and  pres- 
ently she  turned  to  Olive,  and  said:  "I  know  he 
will  find  us  both  a  great  deal  changed.  Flavia  looks 
so  much  older,  —  and  so  do  I.  But  I  shall  soon  show 
him  that  I  can  look  young  again.  I  presume  he 's 
changed  too." 

Marcia  held  the  little  girl  up  at  the  window.  They 
had  now  left  the  river  hills  and  the  rolling  country 
beyond,  and  had  entered  the  great  plain  which 
stretches  from  the  Ohio  to  the  Mississippi ;  and  mile 
by  mile,  as  they  ran  southward  and  westward,  the 
spring  unfolded  in  the  mellow  air  under  the  dull, 
warm  sun.  The  willows  were  in  perfect  leaf,  and 
wore  their  delicate  green  like  veils  caught  upon  their 
boughs;  the  may-apples  had  already  pitched  their 
tents  in  the  woods,  beginning  to  thicken  and  darken 
with  the  young  foliage  of  the  oaks  and  hickories; 
suddenly,  as  the  train  dashed  from  a  stretch  of  forest, 
the  peach  orchards  flushed  pink  beside  the  brick 
farmsteads.  The  child  gave  a  cry  of  delight,  and 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  483 

pointed ;  and  her  mother  seemed  to  forget  all  that  had 
gone  before,  and  abandoned  herself  to  Flavia's  joy  in 
the  blossoms,  as  if  there  were  no  trouble  for  her  in  the 
world. 

Halleck  rose  and  went  into  the  other  car;  he  felt 
giddy,  as  if  her  fluctuations  of  mood  and  motive  had 
somehow  turned  his  own  brain.  He  did  not  come 
back  till  the  train  stopped  at  Columbus  for  dinner. 
The  old  Squire  showed  the  same  appetite  as  at  break- 
fast :  he  had  the  effect  of  falling  upon  his  food  like  a 
bird  of  prey ;  and  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  despatched 
he  went  back  to  his  seat  in  the  car,  where  he  lapsed 
into  his  former  silence  and  immobility,  his  lank  jaws 
working  with  fresh  activity  upon  the  wooden  tooth- 
pick he  had  brought  away  from  the  table.  While 
they  waited  for  a  train  from  the  north  which  was  to 
connect  with  theirs,  Halleck  walked  up  and  down 
the  vast,  noisy  station  with  Olive  and  Marcia,  and 
humored  the  little  girl  in  her  explorations  of  the  place. 
She  made  friends  with  a  red-bird  that  sang  in  its 
cage  in  the  dining-hall,  and  with  an  old  woman, 
yellow,  and  wrinkled,  and  sunken-eyed,  sitting  on  a 
bundle  tied  up  in  a  quilt  beside  the  door,  and  smok- 
ing her  clay  pipe,  as  placidly  as  if  on  her  own  cabin 
threshold.  "  Tears  like  you  ain't  much  afeard  of 
strangers,  honey,"  said  the  old  woman,  taking  her 
pipe  out  of  her  mouth,  to  fill  it.  "Where  do  you 
live  at  when  you  're  home  ? " 

"Boston,"  said  the  child,  promptly.  "Where  do 
you  live  ? " 

"I  used  to  live  in  Old  Virginny.  But  my  son, 
he 's  takin'  me  out  to  Illinoy,  now.  He  's  settled  out 
there."  She  treated  the  child  with  the  serious  equal- 
ity which  simple  old  people  use  with  children ;  and 
spat  neatly  aside  in  resuming  her  pipe.  "Which 
o'  them  ladies  yender  is  your  maw,  honey  ? " 

"  My  mamma  ? " 


484  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

The  old  woman  nodded. 

Flavia  ran  away  anc^  laid  her  hand  on  Marcia's 
dress,  and  then  ran  back  to  the  old  woman. 

"  That  your  paw,  with  her  ? "  Flavia  looked  blank, 
and  the  old  woman  interpreted,  "  Your  father." 

"  No  !  We  're  going  out  to  see  papa,  —  out  West 
We  're  going  to  see  him  to-morrow,  and  then  he  's 
coming  back  with  us.  My  grandpa  is  in  that  car." 

The  old  woman  now  laid  her  folded  arms  on  her 
knees,  and  smoked  obliviously.  The  little  girl  lin- 
gered a  moment,  and  then  ran  off  laughing  to  her 
mother,  and  pulled  her  skirt.  "  Was  n't  it  funny, 
mamma  ?  She  thought  Mr.  Halleck  was  my  papa  ! " 
She  hung  forward  by  the  hold  she  had  taken,  as  chil- 
dren do,  and  tilted  her  head  back  to  look  into  hei 
mother's  fp.ce.  "  What  is  Mr.  Halleck,  mamma  ? " 

"  What  is  he  ? "     The  group  halted  involuntarily. 

"  Yes,  what  is  he  ?  Is  he  my  uncle,  or  my  cousin, 
or  what  ?  Is  he  going  out  to  see  papa,  too  ?  What  is 
he  going  for  ?  Oh,  look,  look  ! "  The  child  plucked 
away  her  hand,  and  ran  off  to  join  the  circle  of  idle 
men  and  half-grown  boys  who  were  forming  about 
two  shining  negroes  with  banjos.  The  negroes  flung 
their  hands  upon  the  strings  with  an  ecstatic  joy  in 
the  music,  and  lifted  their  black  voices  in  a  wild 
plantation  strain.  The  child  began  to  leap  and  dance, 
and  her  mother  ran  after  her. 

"  Naughty  little  girl ! "  she  cried.  "  Come  into  the 
car  with  me,  this  minute." 

Halleck  did  not  see  Marcia  again  till  the  train 
had  run  far  out  of  the  city,  and  was  again  sweeping 
through  the  thick  woods,  and  flashing  out  upon  the 
levels  of  the  fields  where  the  farmers  were  riding  their 
Bulky-plows  up  and  down  the  long  furrows  in  the 
pleasant  afternoon .  sun.  There  was  something  in 
this  transformation  of  man's  old-time  laborious  de- 
pendence into  a  lordly  domination  over  the  eartli 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  485 

which  strikes  the  westward  journey er  as  finally  ex- 
pressive of  human  destiny  in  the  whole  mighty  region, 
and  which  penetrated  even  to  Halleck's  sore  and 
jaded  thoughts.  A  different  type  of  men  "began  to 
show  itself  in  the  car,  as  the  Western  people  gradually 
took  the  places  of  his  fellow-travellers  from  the  East. 
The  men  were  often  slovenly  and  sometimes  uncouth 
in  their  dress ;  but  they  made  themselves  at  home  in 
the  exaggerated  splendor  and  opulence  of  the  car,  as 
if  born  to  the  best  in  every  way ;  their  faces  suggested 
the  security  of  people  who  trusted  the  future  from 
the  past,  and  had  no  fears  of  the  life  that  had  always 
used  them  well ;  they  had  not  that  eager  and  intense 
look  which  the  Eastern  faces  wore ;  there  was  energy 
enough  and  to  spare  in  them,  but  it  was  not  an 
anxious  energy.  The  sharp  accent  of  the  seaboard 
yielded  to  the  rounded,  soft,  and  slurring  tones,  and 
the  prompt  address  was  replaced  by  a  careless  and 
confident  neighborliness  of  manner. 

Flavia  fretted  at  her  return  to  captivity  in  the 
car,  and  demanded  to  be  released  with  a  teasing  per- 
sistence from  which  nothing  she  was  shown  out  of 
the  window  could  divert  her.  A  large  man  leaned 
forward  at  last  from  a  seat  near  by,  and  held  out  an 
orange.  "  Come  here  to  me,  little  Trouble,"  he  said  ; 
and  Flavia  made  an  eager  start  toward  this  unlooked- 
for  friend. 

Marcia  wished  to  check  her ;  but  Halleck  pleaded 
to  have  her  go.  "  It  will  be  a  relief  to  you,"  he 
said. 

"  Well,  let  her  go,"  Marcia  consented.  "  But  she 
was  no  trouble,  and  she  is  no  relief."  She  sat  looking 
dully  at  the  little  girl  after  the  Westerner  had  gath- 
ered her  up  into  his  lap.  "  Should  I  have  liked  to 
tell  her,"  she  said,  as  if  thinking  aloud,  "how  we 
were  really  going  to  meet  her  father,  and  that  you 
were  coming  with  me  to  be  my  witness  against  him 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

in  a  court,  —  to  put  him  down  and  disgrace  him,  — * 
to  fight  him,  as  father  says  ? " 

"  You  must  n't  think  of  it  in  that  way,"  said  Hal* 
leek,  gently,  but,  as  he  felt,  feebly  and  inadequately. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  not  think  of  it  in  that  way  long,"  she 
answered.  "  My  head  is  in  a  whirl,  and  I  can't  hold 
what  we  're  doing  before  my  mind  in  any  one  shape 
for  a  minute  at  a  time.  I  don't  know  what  will 
become  of  me,  —  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of 
ine!" 

But  in  another  breath  she  rose  from  this  desolation, 
and  was  talking  with  impersonal  cheerfulness  of  the 
sights  that  the  car-window  showed.  As  long  as  the 
light  held,  they  passed  through  the  same  opulent  and 
monotonous  landscape  ;  through  little  towns  full  of 
signs  of  material  prosperity,  and  then  farms,  and  farms 
again  ;  the  brick  houses  set  in  the  midst  of  evergreens, 
and  compassed  by  vast  acreages  of  corn  land,  where 
herds  of  black  pigs  wandered,  and  the  farmers  were 
riding  their  ploughs,  or  heaping  into  vast  windrows  for 
burning  the  winter- worn  stalks  of  the  last  year's  crop. 
Where  they  came  to  a  stream  the  landscape  was 
roughened  into  low  hills,  from  which  it  sank  again 
luxuriously  to  a  plain.  If  there  was  any  difference 
between  Ohio  and  Indiana,  it  was  that  in  Indiana 
the  spring  night,  whose  breath  softly  buffeted  their 
cheeks  through  the  open  window,  had  gathered  over 
those  eternal  cornfields,  where  the  long  crooked  wind- 
rows, burning  on  either  hand,  seemed  a  trail  of  fiery 
serpents  writhing  away  from  the  train  as  it  roared 
and  clamored  over  the  track. 

They  were  to  leave,  their  car  at  Indianapolis,  and 
take  another  road  which  would  bring  them  to  Tecum- 
seh  by  daylight  the  next  morning.  Olive  went  away 
with  the  little  girl,  and  put  her  to  bed  on  the  sofa  in 
their  state-room,  and  Marcia  suffered  them  to  ga 
alone ;  it  was  only  by  fits  that  she  had  cared  for  the 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  487 

child,  or  even  noticed  it.  "  Now  tell  me  again/'  she 
said  to  Halleck,  "  why  we  are  going." 

"  Surely  you  know." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  ;  but  I  can't  think,  —  I  don't 
seem  to  remember.  Did  n't  I  give  it  up  once  ?  Did  n't 
I  say  that  I  would  rather  go  home,  and  let  Bartley 
get  the  divorce,  if  he  wanted  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  said  that,  Marcia." 

"  I  used  to  make  him  very  unhappy ;  I  was  very 
strict  with  him,  \vhen  I  knew  he  could  n't  bear  any 
kind  of  strictness.  And  he  was  always  so  patient 
with  me  ;  though  he  never  really  cared  for  me.  Oh, 
yes,  I  knew  that  from  the  first !  He  used  to  try ;  but 
he  must  have  been  glad  to  get  away.  Poor  Bartley ! 
It  was  cruel,  cruel,  to  put  that  in  about  my  abandon- 
ing him  when  he  knew  I  would  come  back ;  but  per- 
haps the  lawyers  told  him  he  must ;  he  had  to  put  in 
something  !  Why  should  n't  I  let  him  go  ?  Father 
said  he  only  wanted  to  get  rid  of  me,  so  that  he  could 
marry  some  one  else  —  Yes,  yes ;  it  was  that  that 
made  me  start !  Father  knew  it  would !  Oh,"  she 
grieved,  with  a  wild  self-pity  that  tore  Halleck's 
heart,  "  he  knew  it  would  ! "  She  fell  wearily  back 
against  the  seat,  and  did  not  speak  for  some  minutes. 
Then  she  said,  in  a  slow,  broken  utterance :  "  But 
now  I  don't  seern  to  mind  even  that,  any  more.  Why 
should  n't  he  marry  some  one  else  that  he  really  likes, 
if  he  does  n't  care  for  me  ? " 

Halleck  laughed  in  bitterness  of  soul  as  his  thought 
recurred  to  Atherton's  reasons.  "  Because,"  he  said, 
"  you  have  a  public  duty  in  the  matter.  You  must 
keep  him  bound  to  you,  for  fear  some  other  woman, 
whose  husband  does  n't  care  for  her,  should  let  him 
go,  too,  and  society  be  broken  up,  and  civilization 
destroyed.  In  a  matter  like  this,  which  seems  to 
concern  yourself  alone,  you  are  only  to  regard  others." 

His  reckless  irony  did  not  reach  her  through  bet 


ft88  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

manifold  sorrow.  "  Well,"  she  said,  simply,  "  it  must 
be  that.  But,  oh !  how  can  I  bear  it  I  how  can  I  bear 
it!" 

The  time  passed;  Olive  did  not  return  for  an  hour; 
then  she  merely  said  that  the  little  girl  had  just  fallen 
asleep,  and  that  she  should  go  back  and  lie  down 
with  her ;  that  she  was  sleepy  too. 

Marcia  did  not  answer,  but  Halleck  said  he  would 
call  her  in  good  time  before  they  reached  Indian- 
apolis. 

The  porter  made  up  the  berths  of  such  as  were 
going  through  to  St.  Louis,  and  Marcia  was  left  sit- 
ting alone  with  Halleck.  "  I  will  go  and  get  your 
father  to  come  here,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  want  him  to  come !  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  —  to  say  something  —  What  was  it  ?  I  can't 
think ! "  She  stopped,  like  one  trying  to  recover  a 
faded  thought ;  he  waited,  but  she  did  not  speak 
again.  She  had  laid  a  nervous  clutch  upon  his  arm, 
to  detain  him  from  going  for  her  father,  and  she  kept 
her  hand  there  mechanically ;  but  after  a  while  he 
felt  it  relax ;  she  drooped  against  him,  and  fell  away 
into  a  sleep  in  which  she  started  now  and  then  like  a 
frightened  child.  He  could  not  release  himself  with- 
out waking  her ;  but  it  did  not  matter ;  her  sorrow 
had  unsexed  her;  only  the  tenderness  of  his  love  for 
this  hapless  soul  remained  in  his  heart,  which  ached 
and  evermore  heavily  sank  within  him. 

He  woke  her  at  last  when  he  must  go  to  tell  Olive 
that  they  were  running  into  Indianapolis.  Marcia 
struggled  to  her  feet :  "  Oh,  oh !  Are  we  there  ?  Are 
we  there  ? " 

"  We  are  at  Indianapolis,"  said  Halleck. 

"  I  thought  it  was  Tecumseh  ! "  She  shuddered 
"  We  can  go  back ;  oh,  yes,  we  can  still  go  back  !  " 

They  alighted  from  the  train  in  the  chilly  mid- 
night air,  and  found  their  way  through  the  crowd  to 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  489 

the  eating-room  of  the  station.  The  little  girl  cried 
with  broken  sleep  and  the  strangeness,  and  Olive 
tried  to  quiet  her.  Marcia  clung  to  Halleck's  arm, 
and  shivered  convulsively.  Squire  Gaylord  stalked 
beside  them  with  a  demoniac  vigor.  "  A  few  more 
hours,  a  few  more  hours,  sir !  "  he  said.  He  made  a 
hearty  supper,  while  the  rest  scalded  their  mouths 
with  hot  tea,  which  they  forced  with  loathing  to  their 
lips. 

Some  women  who  were  washing  the  floor  of  the 
ladies'  waiting-room  told  them  they  must  go  into  the 
men's  room,  and  wait  there  for  their  train,  which  was 
due  at  one  o'clock.  They  obeyed,  and  found  the  room 
full  of  emigrants,  and  the  air  thick  with  their  tobacco 
smoke.  There  was  no  choice ;  Olive  went  in  first 
and  took  the  child  on  her  lap,  where  it  straightway 
fell  asleep  ;  the  Squire  found  a  seat  beside  them,  and 
sat  erect,  looking  round  on  the  emigrants  with  the 
air  of  being  amused  at  their  outlandish  speech,  into 
which  they  burst  clamorously  from  their  silence  at 
intervals.  Marcia  stopped  Halleck  at  the  threshold. 
"  Stay  out  here  with  me,"  she  whispered.  "  I  want 
to  tell  you  something,"  she  added,  as  he  turned  me- 
chanically and  walked  away  with  her  up  the  vast 
lamp-shot  darkness  of  the  depot.  "  /  am  not  going 
on  !  I  am  going  back.  We  will  take  the  train  that 
goes  to  the  East ;  father  will  never  know  till  it  is  too 
late.  We  need  n't  speak  to  him  about  it  —  " 

Halleck  set  himself  against  this  delirious  folly  :  he 
consented  to  her  return ;  she  could  do  what  she 
would  ;  but  he  would  not  consent  to  cheat  her  father. 
"  We  must  go  and  tell  him,"  he  said,  for  all  answei 
to  all  her  entreaties.  He  dragged  her  back  to  the 
waiting-room  ;  but  at  the  door  she  started  at  the  fig- 
ure  of  a  man  who  was  bending  over  a  group  of  emi- 
grant children  asleep  in  the  nearest  corner,  —  poor, 
uncouth,  stubbed  little  creatures,  in  old-mannish 


490  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

clothes,  looking  like  children  roughly  blocked  out  of 
wood,  and  stiffly  stretched  on  the  floor,  or  resting 
woodenly  against  their  mother. 

"  There ! "  said  the  man,  pressing  a  mug  of  coffee 
on  the  woman.  "  You  drink  that !  It  '11  do  you 
good,  —  every  drop  of  it !  I  Ve  seen  the  time,"  he 
said,  turning  round  with  the  mug,  when  she  had 
drained  it,  in  his  hand,  and  addressing  Marcia  and 
Halleck  as  the  most  accessible  portion  of  the  English- 
speaking  public,  "  when  I  used  to  be  down  on  coffee  ; 
I  thought  it  was  bad  for  the  nerves  ;  but  I  tell  you, 
when  you  're  travelling  it 's  a  brain-food,  if  ever  there 
was  a  brain  —  "  He  dropped  the  mug,  and  stumbled 
back  into  the  heap  of  sleeping  children,  fixing  a 
ghastly  stare  on  Marcia. 

She  ran  toward  him.     "  Mr.  Kinney  ! " 

"  No,  you  don't !  —  no,  you  don't ! " 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  me  ?     Mrs.  Hubbard  ? " 

"  He  —  he  —  told  me  you  —  was  dead ! "  roared 
Kinney. 

"  He  told  you  I  was  dead  ? " 

"  More  'n  a  year  ago  !  The  last  time  I  seen  him  ? 
Before  I  went  out  to  Leadville  ! " 

"  He  told  you  I  was  dead,"  repeated  Marcia  huskily. 
"He  must  have  wished  it!"  she  whispered.  "Oh, 
mercy,  mercy,  mercy ! "  She  stopped,  and  then  she 
broke  into  a  wild  laugh:  "Well,  you  see  he  was 
wrong.  I  'm  on  my  way  to  him  now  to  show  him 
that  I'm  alive  1" 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  491 


XL 


HALLECK  woke  at  daybreak  from  the  drowse  into 
which  he  had  fallen.  The  train  was  creeping  slowly 
over  the  track,  feeling  its  way,  and  he  heard  frag- 
ments of  talk  among  the  passengers  about  a  broken 
rail  that  the  conductor  had  been  warned  of.  He 
turned  to  ask  some  question,  when  the  pull  of  rising 
speed  came  from  the  locomotive,  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment the  car  stopped  with  a  jolting  pitch.  It  settled 
upon  the  track  again ;  but  the  two  cars  in  front  were 
overturned,  and  the  passengers  were  still  climbing 
from  their  windows,  when  Halleck  got  his  bewildered 
party  to  the  ground.  Children  were  crying,  and  a 
woman  was  led  by  with  her  face  cut  and  bleeding 
from  the  broken  glass  ;  but  it  was  reported  that  no  one 
else  was  hurt,  and  the  trainmen  gave  their  helpless- 
ness to  the  inspection  of  the  rotten  cross-tie  that  had 
caused  the  accident.  One  of  the  passengers  kicked 
the  decayed  wood  with  his  boot.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  I 
always  like  a  little  accident  like  this,  early ;  it  makes 
us  safe  the  rest  of  the  day."  The  sentiment  appar- 
ently commended  itself  to  popular  acceptance ;  Halleck 
went  forward  with  part  of  the  crowd  to  see  what  was 
the  matter  with  the  locomotive:  it  had  kept  the  track, 
but  seemed  to  be  injured  somehow;  the  engineer  was 
working  at  it,  hammer  in  hand  ;  he  exchanged  some 
dry  pleasantries  with  a  passenger  who  asked  him 
if  there  was  any  chance  of  hiring  a  real  fast  ox-team 
in  that  neighborhood,  in  case  a  man  was  in  a  hurry 
to  get  on  to  Tecumseh. 


492  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  a  level  prairie  that 
stretched  all  round  to  the  horizon,  where  it  was  broken 
by  patches  of  timber ;  the  rising  sun  slanted  across 
the  green  expanse,  and  turned  its  distance  to  gold ; 
the  grass  at  their  feet  was  full  of  wild-flowers,  upon 
which  Flavia  flung  herself  as  soon  as  they  got  out  of  the 
car.  By  the  time  Halleck  returned  to  them,  she  was 
running  with  cries  of  joy  and  wonder  toward  a  wind- 
mill that  rose  beautiful  above  the  roofs  of  a  group 
of  commonplace  houses,  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
track ;  it  stirred  its  mighty  vans  in  the  thin,  sweet 
inland  breeze,  and  took  the  sun  gayly  on  the  light 
gallery  that  encircled  it. 

A  vision  of  Belgian  plains  swept  before  Halleck's 
eyes.  "There  ought  to  be  storks  on  its  roof,"  he 
said,  absently. 

"  How  strange  that  it  should  be  here,  away  out  in 
the  West ! "  said  Olive. 

"  If  it  were  less  strange  than  we  are,  here,  I  could  n't 
stand  it,"  he  answered. 

A  brakeman  came  up  with  a  flag  in  his  hand,  and 
nodded  toward  Flavia.  "  She 's  on  the  right  track  for 
breakfast,"  he  said.  "  There 's  an  old  Dutchman  at  that 
mill,  and  his  wife  knows  how  to  make  coffee  like  a 
fellow's  mother.  You  '11  have  plenty  of  time.  This 
train  has  come  here  to  stay  —  till  somebody  can  walk 
back  five  miles  and  telegraph  for  help." 

"  How  far  are  we  from  Tecumseh  ? "  asked  Hal- 
leck. 

"  Fifty  miles,"  the  brakeman  called  back  over  his 
shoulder. 

"Don't  you  worry  any,  Marcia,"  said  her  father, 
moving  off  in  pursuit  of  Flavia.  "  This  accident 
makes  it  all  right  for  us,  if  we  don't  get  there  for  a 
week." 

Marcia  answered  nothing.  Halleck  began  to  talk 
to  her  of  that  Belgian  landscape  in  which  he  had  first 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  493 

Been  a  windmill,  and  he  laughed  at  the  blank  tinin- 
telligence  with  which  she  received  his  reminiscences 
of  travel.  For  the  moment,  the  torturing  stress  was 
lifted  from  his  soul ;  he  wished  that  the  breakfast  in 
the  miller's  house  might  never  come  to  an  end ;  he 
explored  the  mill  with  Flavia ;  he  bantered  the  Squire 
on  his  saturnine  preference  for  steam  power  in  the 
milling  business ;  he  made  the  others  share  his  mood ; 
he  pushed  far  from  him  the  series  of  tragic  or  squalid 
facts  which  had  continually  brought  the  end  to  him 
in  reveries  in  which  he  found  himself  holding  his 
breath,  as  if  he  might  hold  it  till  the  end  really  came. 

But  this  respite  could  not  last.  A  puff  of  white 
steam  showed  on  the  horizon,  and  after  an  interval 
the  sound  of  the  locomotive  whistle  reached  them,  as 
it  came  backing  down  a  train  of  empty  cars  towards 
them.  They  were  quickly  on  their  journey  again,  and 
a  scanty  hour  before  noon  they  arrived  at  Tecumseh. 

The  pretty  town,  which  in  prospect  had  worn  to 
Olive  Halleck's  imagination  the  blended  hideousness 
of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  was  certainly  very  much  more 
like  a  New  England  village  in  fact.  After  the  brick 
farmsteads  and  coal-smoked  towns  of  Central  Ohio,  its 
wooden  houses,  set  back  from  the  street  with  an  ample 
depth  of  door-yard,  were  appealingly  familiar,  and  she 
exchanged  some  homesick  whispers  with  Marcia  about 
them,  as  they  drove  along  under  the  full-leaved  maples 
which  shadowed  the  way.  The  grass  was  denser  and 
darker  than  in  New  England,  and,  pretty  as  the  town 
was,  it  wore  a  more  careless  and  unscrupulous  air  than 
the  true  New  England  village  ;  the  South  had  touched 
it,  and  here  and  there  it  showed  a  wavering  line  of 
fence  and  a  faltering  conscientiousness  in  its  paint. 
Presently  all  aspects  of  village  quiet  and  seclusion 
ceased,  and  a  section  of  conventional  American  city, 
with  flat-roofed  brick  blocks,  showy  hotel,  stores, 
paved  street,  and  stone  sidewalks  expressed  the  readi- 


494  A  MODEEN  INSTANCE. 

ness  of  Tecumseh  to  fulfil  the  destiny  of  every  West- 
ern town,  and  become  a  metropolis  at  a  day's  notice, 
if  need  be.  The  second-hand  omnibus,  which  re- 
flected the  actuality  of  Tecumseh,  set  them  down  at 
the  broad  steps  of  the  court-house,  fronting  on  an 
avenue  which  for  a  city  street  was  not  very  crowded 
or  busy.  Such  passers  as  there  were  had  leisure  and 
inclination,  as  they  loitered  by,  to  turn  and  stare  at  the 
strangers ;  and  the  voice  of  the  sheriff,  as  he  called 
from  an  upper  window  of  the  court-house  the  names 
of  absentee  litigants  or  witnesses  required  to  come 
into  court,  easily  made  itself  heard  above  all  the  other 
noises. 

It  seemed  to  Halleck  as  if  the  sheriff  were  call- 
ing them ;  he  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  Olive, 
but  she  would  not  meet  his  eye ;  she  led  by  the  hand 
the  little  girl,  who  kept  asking,  "  Is  this  the  house 
where  papa  lives  ? "  with  the  merciless  iteration  of  a 
child.  Halleck  dragged  lamely  after  the  Squire,  who 
had  mounted  the  steps  with  unnatural  vigor;  he 
promptly  found  his  way  to  the  clerk's  office,  where  he 
examined  the  docket,  and  then  returned  to  his  party 
triumphant.  "  We  are  in  time,"  he  said,  and  he  led 
them  on  up  into  the  court-room. 

A  few  spectators,  scattered  about  on  the  rows  of 
benching,  turned  to  look  at  them  as  they  walked  up 
the  aisle,  where  the  cocoa  matting,  soaked  and  dried, 
and  soaked  again,  with  perpetual  libations  of  tobacco- 
juice,  mercifully  silenced  their  footsteps ;  most  of  the 
faces  turned  upon  them  showed  a  slow  and  thought- 
ful movement  of  the  jaws,  and,  as  they  were  dropped 
or  averted,  a  general  discharge  of  tobacco-juice  seemed 
to  express  the  general  adoption  of  the  new-comers, 
whoever  they  were,  as  a  necessary  element  of  the 
scene,  which  it  was  useless  to  oppose,  and  about  which 
it  was  idle  to  speculate.  Before  the  Squire  had  found 
his  party  seats  on  one  of  the  benches  next  the  bar,  thtj 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  495 

spectators  had  again  given  their  languid  attention  to 
the  administration  of  justice,  which  is  everywhere  in- 
formal with  us,  and  is  only  a  little  more  informal  in 
the  West  than  in  the  East.  An  effect  of  serene 
disoccupation  pervaded  the  place,  such  as  comes  at 
the  termination  of  an  interesting  affair ;  and  no  one 
seemed  to  care  for  what  the  clerk  was  reading  aloud 
in  a  set,  mechanical  tone.  The  judge  was  busy  with 
his  docket ;  the  lawyers,  at  their  several  little  tables 
within  the  bar,  lounged  in  their  chairs,  or  stalked 
about  laughing  and  whispering  to  each  other;  the 
prosecuting  attorney  leaned  upon  the  shoulder  of  a 
jolly-looking  man,  who  lifted  his  face  to  joke  up  at 
him,  as  he  tilted  his  chair  back ;  a  very  stout,  young- 
ish person,  who  sat  next  him,  kept  his  face  dropped 
while  the  clerk  proceeded  :  — 

"  And  now,  on  motion  of  plaintiff,  it  is  ordered  by 
the  Court  that  said  defendant  be  now  here  three  times 
called,  which  is  done  in  open  court,  and  she  comes 
not;  but  wholly  makes  default  herein.  And  this 
cause  is  now  submitted  to  the  Court  for  trial,  and  the 
Court  having  heard  the  evidence,  and  being  fully 
advised,  find  for  the  plaintiff,  —  that  the  allegations  of 
his  complaint  are  true,  and  that  he  is  entitled  to  a 
divorce.  It  is  therefore  considered  by  the  Court,  that 
said  plaintiff  be  and  he  is  hereby  divorced,  and  the 
bonds  of  matrimony  heretofore  existing  between  said 
parties  are  dissolved  and  held  for  naught." 

As  the  clerk  closed  the  large  volume  before  him, 
the  jolly  lawyer,  as  if  the  record  had  been  read  at  his 
request,  nodded  to  the  Court,  and  said,  "  The  record  of 
the  decree  seems  correct,  your  honor."  He  leaned  for- 
ward, and  struck  the  fat  man's  expanse  of  back  with 
the  flat  of  his  hand.  "Congratulate  you,  my  dear 
boy ! "  he  said  in  a  stage  whisper  that  was  heard 
through  the  room.  "  Many  happy  returns  of  the 
day!" 


496  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

A  laugh  went  round,  and  the  judge  said  severely, 
fcMr.  Sheriff,  see  that  order  is  kept  in  the  court- 
room." 

The  fat  man  rose  to  shake  hands  with  another 
friend,  and  at  the  same  moment  Squire  Gaylord 
stretched  himself  to  his  full  height  before  stooping 
over  to  touch  the  shoulder  of  one  of  the  lawyers 
within  the  bar,  and  his  eyes  encountered  those  of 
Bartley  Hubbard  in  mutual  recognition. 

It  was  not  the  fat  on  Hartley's  ribs  only  that  had 
increased  :  his  broad  cheeks  stood  out  and  hung  down 
with  it,  and  his  chin  descended  by  the  three  succes- 
sive steps  to  his  breast.  His  complexion  was  of  a 
tender  pink,  on  which  his  blonde  moustache  showed 
white ;  it  almost  vanished  in  the  tallowy  pallor  to 
which  the  pink  turned  as  he  saw  his  father-in-law, 
and  then  the  whole  group  which  the  intervening 
spectators  had  hitherto  hidden  from  him.  He  dropped 
back  into  his  chair,  and  intimated  to  his  lawyer,  with 
a  wave  of  his  hand  and  a  twist  of  his  head,  that  some 
hopeless  turn  in  his  fortunes  had  taken  place.  That 
jolly  soul  turned  to  him  for  explanation,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  lawyer  whom  Squire  Gaylord  had 
touched  on  the  shoulder  responded  to  a  few  whispered 
words  from  him  by  beckoning  to  the  prosecuting  at- 
torney, who  stepped  briskly  across  to  where  they  stood. 
A  brief  dumb-show  ensued,  and  the  prosecutor  ended 
by  taking  the  Squire's  hand,  and  inviting  him  within, 
the  bar ;  the  other  attorney  politely  made  room  for 
him  at  his  table,  and  the  prosecutor  returned  to  his 
place  near  the  jury-box,  where  he  remained  standing 
for  a  moment. 

"  If  it  please  the  Court,"  he  began,  in  a  voice  break- 
ing heavily  upon  the  silence  that  had  somehow  fallen 
upon  the  whole  room,  "  I  wish  to  state  that  the  de- 
fendant in  the  case  of  Hubbard  vs.  Hubbard  is  now 
and  here  present,  having  been  prevented  by  an  acci- 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  497 

dent  on  the  road  between  this  place  and  Indianapolis 
from  arriving  in  time  to  make  defence.  She  desires 
to  move  the  Court  to  set  aside  the  default." 

The  prosecutor  retired  a  few  paces,  and  nodded 
triumphantly  at  Hartley's  lawyer,  who  could  not 
wholly  suppress  his  enjoyment  of  the  joke,  though  it 
told  so  heavily  against  him  and  his  client.  But  he 
was  instantly  on  his  feet  with  a  technical  objection. 

The  judge  heard  him  through,  and  then  opened  his 
docket,  at  the  case  of  Hubbard  vs.  Hubbard.  "  What 
name  shall  I  enter  for  the  defence  ? "  he  inquired 
formally. 

Squire  Gaylord  turned  with  an  old-fashioned  state 
and  deliberation  which  had  their  effect,  and  cast  a 
glance  of  professional  satisfaction  in  the  situation  at 
the  attorneys  and  the  spectators.  "  I  ask  to  be  allowed 
to  appear  for  the  defence  in  this  case,  if  the  Court 
please.  My  friend,  Mr.  Hathaway,  will  move  my 
admission  to  this  bar." 

The  attorney  to  whom  the  Squire  had  first  intro- 
duced himself  promptly  complied :  "  Your  honor,  I 
move  the  admission  of  Mr.  R  J.  Gaylord,  of  Equity, 
Equity  County,  Maine,  to  practise  at  this  bar." 

The  judge  bowed  to  the  Squire,  and  directed  the 
clerk  to  administer  the  usual  oath.  "  I  have  entered 
your  name  for  the  defence,  Mr.  Gaylord.  Do  you 
desire  to  make  any  motion  in  the  case  ? "  he  pursued, 
the  natural  courtesy  of  his  manner  further  qualified 
by  a  feeling  which  something  pathetic  in  the  old 
Squire's  bearing  inspired. 

"  Yes,  your  honor,  I  move  to  set  aside  the  default, 
and  I  shall  offer  in  support  of  this  motion  my  affida- 
vit, setting  forth  the  reasons  for  the  non-appearance 
of  the  defendant  at  the  calling  of  the  cause." 

"  Shall  I  note  your  motion  as  filed  ? "  asked  the 
judge. 

"  Yes,  your  honor,"  replied  the  old  man.     He  mada 

32 


498  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

a  futile  attempt  to  prepare  the  paper ;  the  pen  flew 
out  of  his  trembling  hand.  "  /  can't  write,"  he  said 
in  despair  that  made  other  hands  quick  to  aid  him. 
A  young  lawyer  at  the  next  desk  rapidly  drew  up 
the  paper,  and  the  Squire  duly  offered  it  to  the  clerk 
of  the  Court.  The  clerk  stamped  it  with  the  file- 
mark  of  the  Court,  and  returned  it  to  the  Squire,  who 
read  aloud  the  motion  and  affidavit,  setting  forth  the 
facts  of  the  defendant's  failure  to  receive  the  notice 
in  time  to  prepare  for  her  defence,  and  of  the  accident 
which  had  contributed  to  delay  her  appearance,  de- 
claring that  she  had  a  just  defence  to  the  plaintiffs 
bill,  and  asking  to  be  heard  upon  the  facts. 

Hartley's  attorney  was  prompt  to  interpose  again. 
He  protested  that  the  printed  advertisement  was 
sufficient  notice  to  the  defendant,  whenever  it  came 
to  her  knowledge,  or  even  if  it  never  came  to  her 
knowledge,  and  that  her  plea  of  failure  to  receive  it 
in  time  was  not  a  competent  excuse.  This  might  be 
alleged  in  any  case,  and  any  delay  of  travel  might 
be  brought  forward  to  account  for  non-appearance  as 
plausibly  as  this  trumped-up  accident  in  which  no- 
body was  hurt.  He  did  his  best,  which  was  also  his 
worst,  ami  the  judge  once  more  addressed  the  Squire, 
who  stood  waiting  for  Hartley's  counsel  to  close.  "  I 
was  about  to  adjourn  the  Court,"  said  the  judge,  in 
that  accent  which  is  the  gift  of  the  South  to  some 
parts  of  the  West ;  it  is  curiously  soft  and  gentle,  and 
expressive,  when  the  speaker  will,  of  a  caressing  def- 
erence. "But  we  have  still  some  minutes  before 
noon  in  which  we  can  hear  you  in  support  of  your 
motion,  if  you  are  ready." 

"I  am  m-ready,  your  honor!"  The  old  man's 
nasals  cut  across  the  judge's  rounded  tones,  almost 
before  they  had  ceased.  His  lips  compressed  them- 
selves to  a  waving  line,  and  his  high  hawk-beak  came 
down  over  them ;  the  fierce  light  burned  in  his  cav- 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  499 

ernous  eyes,  and  his  grizzled  hair  erected  itself  like  a 
crest.  He  swayed  slightly  back  and  forth  at  the 
table,  behind  which  he  stood,  and  paused  as  if  wait* 
ing  for  his  hate  to  gather  head. 

In  this  interval  it  struck  several  of  the  spectators, 
who  had  appreciative  friends  outside,  that  it  was  a 
pity  they  should  miss  the  coming  music,  and  they 
risked  the  loss  of  some  strains  themselves  that  they 
might  step  out  and  inform  these  dilettanti.  One  of 
them  was  stopped  by  a  man  at  the  door.  "  What 's 
up,  now  ? "  The  other  impatiently  explained  ;  but 
the  inquirer,  instead  of  hurrying  in  to  enjoy  the  fun, 
turned  quickly  about,  and  ran  down  the  stairs.  He 
crossed  the  street,  and,  by  a  system  of  alleys  and  by- 
ways, modestly  made  his  way  to  the  outlying  fields 
of  Tecumseh,  which  he  traversed  at  heightened  speed, 
plunging  at  last  into  the  belt  of  timber  beyond.  This 
excursion,  which  had  so  much  the  appearance  of  a 
chase,  was  an  exigency  of  the  witness  who  had  cor- 
roborated on  oath  the  testimony  of  Bartley  in  regard 
to  his  wife's  desertion.  Such  an  establishment  of 
facts,  purely  imaginary  with  the  witness,  was  simple 
enough  in  the  absence  of  rebutting  testimony;  but 
confronted  with  this,  it  became  another  affair ;  it  had 
its  embarrassments,  its  risks. 

"M-ready,"  repeated  Squire  Gay  lord,  "m-ready  with 
facts  and  witnesses  !  "  The  word,  in  which  he  exulted 
till  it  rang  and  echoed  through  the  room,  drew  the 
eyes  of  all  to  the  little  group  on  the  bench  next  the 
bar,  where  Marcia,  heavily  veiled  in  the  black  which 
she  had  worn  ever  since  Hartley's  disappearance,  sat 
with  Halleck  and  Olive.  The  little  girl,  spent  with 
her  long  journey,  rested  her  head  on  her  mother's 
lap,  and  the  mother's  hand  tremulously  smoothed  her 
hair,  and  tried  to  hush  the  grieving  whisper  in  which 
she  incessantly  repeated,  "Where  is  papa?  I  wan* 
to  see  papa  ! " 


500  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

Olive  looked  straight  before  her,  and  Halleck's  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  floor.  After  the  first  glance  at 
them  Bartley  did  not  lift  his  head,  but  held  it  bent 
forward  where  he  sat,  and  showed  only  a  fold  of  fat 
red  neck  above  his  coat-collar.  Marcia  might  have 
seen  his  face  in  that  moment  before  it  blanched  and 
he  sank  into  his  chair ;  she  did  not  look  toward  him 
again. 

"  Mr.  Sheriff,  keep  silence  in  the  Court ! "  ordered 
the  judge,  in  reprimand  of  the  stir  that  ensued  upon 
the  general  effort  to  catch  sight  of  the  witnesses. 

"  Silence  in  the  Court !  Keep  your  seats,  gentle- 
men ! "  cried  the  sheriff. 

"  And  I  thank  the  Court,"  resumed  the  Squire,  "  for 
this  immediate  opportunity  to  redress  an  atrocious 
wrong,  and  to  vindicate  an  innocent  and  injured 
woman.  Sir,  I  think  it  will  prejudice  our  cause  with 
no  one,  when  I  say  that  we  are  here  not  only  in  the 
relation  of  attorney  and  client,  but  in  that  of  father 
and  daughter,  and  that  I  stand  in  this  place  singularly 
and  sacredly  privileged  to  demand  justice  for  my  own 
child!" 

"  Order,  order ! "  shouted  the  sheriff.  But  he  could 
not  quell  the  sensation  that  followed ;  the  point  had 
been  effectively  made,  and  it  was  some  moments 
before  the  noise  of  the  people  beginning  to  arrive 
from  the  outside  permitted  the  Squire  to  continue. 
He  waited,  with  one  lean  hand  hanging  at  his  side, 
and  the  other  resting  in  a  loosely  folded  fist  on  the 
table  before  him.  He  took  this  fist  up  as  if  it  were 
some  implement  he  had  laid  hold  of,  and  swung  it  in 
the  air. 

"  By  a  chance  which  /  shall  not  be  the  last  to 
describe  as  providential," — he  paused,  and  looked 
round  the  room  as  if  defying  any  one  there  to  chal- 
lenge the  sincerity  of  his  assertion,  — "  the  notice, 
which  your  law  requires  to  be  given  by  newspaper 


A   MODERN   INSTANCE.  501 

advertisement  to  the  non-resident  defendant  in  such 
a  case  as  this,  came,  by  one  chance  in  millions,  to  her 
hand.  By  one  chance  more  or  less,  it  would  not  have 
reached  her,  and  a  monstrous  crime  against  justice 
would  have  been  irrevocably  accomplished.  For  she 
had  mourned  this  man  as  dead,  —  dead  to  the  uni- 
versal frame  of  things,  when  he  was  only  dead  to 
honor,  dead  to  duty,  and  dead  to  her ;  and  it  was  that 
newspaper,  sent  almost  at  random  through  the  mail, 
and  wandering  from  hand  to  hand,  and  everywhere 
rejected,  for  weeks,  before  it  reached  her  at  last, 
which  convinced  her  that  he  was  still  in  such  life  as 
a  man  may  live  who  has  survived  his  own  soul.  We 
are  therefore  here,  standing  upon  our  right,  and  pre- 
pared to  prove  it  God's  right,  and  the  everlasting 
truth.  Two  days  ago,  a  thousand  miles  and  a  thou- 
sand uncertainties  intervened  between  us  and  this 
right,  but  now  we  are  here  to  show  that  the  defendant, 
basely  defamed  by  the  plea  of  abandonment,  returned 
to  her  home  within  an  hour  after  she  had  parted  there 
with  the  plaintiff,  and  has  remained  there  day  and 
night  ever  since."  He  stopped.  "  Did  I  say  she  had 
never  absented  herself  during  all  this  time  ?  I  was 
wrong.  I  spoke  hastily.  I  forgot."  He  dropped  his 
voice.  "She  did  absent  herself  at  one  time,  —  for 
three  days,  —  while  she  could  come  home  to  close  her 
mother's  dying  eyes,  and  help  me  to  lay  her  in  the 
grave  ! "  He  tried  to  close  his  lips  firmly  again,  but 
the  sinuous  line  was  broken  by  a  convulsive  twitch- 
ing. "  Perhaps,"  he  resumed  with  the  utmost  gentle- 
ness, "the  plaintiff  returned  in  this  interval,  and, 
finding  her  gone,  was  confirmed  in  his  belief  that  she 
had  abandoned  him." 

He  felt  blindly  about  on  the  table  with  his 
trembling  hands,  and  his  whole  figure  had  a  pathos 
that  gave  the  old  dress-coat  statuesque  dignity. 
The  spectators  quietly  changed  their  places,  and 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

occupied  the  benches  near  him,  till  Bartley  was  left 
sitting  alone  with  his  counsel.  We  are  beginning  to 
talk  here  at  the  East  of  the  decline  of  oratory ;  but  it 
is  still  a  passion  in  the  West,  and  his  listeners  now 
clustered  about  the  Squire  in  keen  appreciation  of  his 
power ;  it  seemed  to  summon  even  the  loiterers  in  the 
street,  whose  ascending  tramp  on  the  stairs  continu- 
ally made  itself  heard;  the  lawyers,  the  officers  of 
the  court,  the  judge,  forgot  their  dinner,  and  posed 
themselves  anew  in  their  chairs  to  listen. 

No  doubt  the  electrical  sphere  of  sympathy  and 
admiration  penetrated  to  the  old  man's  consciousness. 
When  he  pulled  off  his  black  satin  stock  —  the  relic 
of  ancient  fashion  which  the  piety  of  his  daughter 
kept  in  repair  —  and  laid  it  on  the  table,  there  was  a 
deep  inarticulate  murmur  of  satisfaction  which  he 
could  not  have  mistaken.  His  voice  rose  again :  — 

"If  the  plaintiff  indeed  came  at  that  time,  the 
walls  of  those  empty  rooms,  into  which  he  peered  like 
a  thief  in  the  night,  might  have  told  him  —  if  walls 
had  tongues  to  speak  as  they  have  ears  to  hear  —  a 
tale  that  would  have  melted  even  his  heart  with 
remorse  and  shame.  They  might  have  told  him  of  a 
woman  waiting  in  hunger  and  cold  for  his  return,  and 
willing  to  starve  and  freeze,  rather  than  own  herself 
forsaken,  —  waiting  till  she  was  hunted  from  her 
door  by  the  creditors  whom  he  had  defrauded,  and 
forced  to  confess  her  disgrace  and  her  despair,  in  order 
to  save  herself  from  the  unknown  terrors  of  the  law, 
invoked  upon  her  innocent  head  by  his  villany. 
This  is  the  history  of  the  first  two  weeks  of  those  two 
years,  during  which,  as  his  perjured  lips  have  sworn, 
he  was  using  every  effort  to  secure  her  return  to  him. 
I  will  not  enlarge  now  upon  this  history,  nor  upon 
that  of  the  days  and  weeks  and  months  that  followed, 
wringing  the  heart  arid  all  but  crazing  the  brain  of 
the  wife  who  would  not,  in  the  darkest  hours  of  her 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  503 

desolation,  believe  herself  wilfully  abandoned.  But 
we  have  the  record,  unbroken  and  irrefragable,  which 
shall  not  only  right  his  victim,  but  shall  bring  yonder 
perjurer  to  justice." 

The  words  had  an  iron  weight ;  they  fell  like  blows. 
Bartley  did  not  stir ;  but  Marcia  moved  uneasily  in 
her  chair,  and  a  low  pitiful  murmur  broke  from  behind 
her  veil.  Her  father  stopped  again,  panting,  and  his 
dry  lips  closed  and  parted  several  times  before  he 
could  find  his  voice  again.  But  at  that  sound  of 
grief  he  partially  recovered  himself,  and  went  on 
brokenly. 

"  I  now  ask  this  Court,  for  due  cause,  to  set  aside 
the  default  upon  which  judgment  has  been  rendered 
against  the  defendant,  arid  I  shall  then  ask  leave  to 
file  her  cross-petition  for  divorce." 

Marcia  started  half-way  from  her  chair,  and  then 
fell  back  again ;  she  looked  round  at  Halleck  as  if  for 
help,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Her  father  cast 
a  glance  at  her  as  if  for  her  approval  of  this  develop- 
ment of  his  plan. 

"  Then,  may  it  please  the  Court,  upon  the  rendition 
of  judgment  in  our  favor  upon  that  petition  —  a  result 
of  which  I  have  no  more  doubt  than  of  my  own  exist- 
ence —  I  shall  demand  under  your  law  the  indictment 
of  yonder  perjurer  for  his  crime,  and  I  shall  await  in 
security  the  sentence  which  shall  consign  him  to  a 
felon's  cell  in  a  felon's  garb  — " 

Marcia  flung  herself  upon  her  father's  arm,  out- 
stretched toward  Bartley.  "No!  No!  No!"  she 
cried,  with  deep,  shuddering  breaths,  in  a  voice  thick 
with  horror.  "  Never !  Let  him  go  !  I  will  not  have 
it !  I  did  n't  understand !  I  never  meant  to  harm 
him  !  Let  him  go  !  It  is  my  cause,  and  I  say  —  " 

The  old  man's  arm  dropped ;  he  fixed  a  ghastly,  be- 
wildered look  upon  his  daughter,  and  fell  forward 
across  the  table  at  which  lie  stood.  The  judge  started 


504  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

from  his  ctiair ;  the  people  leaped  over  the  benches, 
and  crushed  about  the  Squire,  who  fetched  his  breath 
in  convulsive  gasps.  "  Keep  back ! "  "  Give  him 
air ! "  "  Open  the  window  ! "  "  Get  a  doctor ! "  cried 
those  next  him. 

Even  Bartley's  counsel  had  joined  the  crowd  about 
the  Squire,  from  the  midst  of  which  broke  the  long, 
frightened  wail  of  a  child.  This  was  Bartley's  oppor- 
tunity. When  his  counsel  turoed  to  look  for  him, 
and  advise  his  withdrawal  from  a  plaoe  where  he 
could  do  no  good,  and  where  possibly  he  might  come 
to  harm,  he  found  that  his  advice  had  been  anticipated : 
Bartley's  chair  was  vacant. 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  605 


XLL 

THAT  night  when  Halleck  had  left  the  old  man  to 
the  care  of  Marcia  and  Olive,  for  the  time,  a  note  was 
brought  to  him  from  Hartley's  lawyer,  begging  the 
favor  of  a  few  moments'  interview  on  very  important 
business.  It  might  be  some  offer  of  reparation  or 
advance  in  Marcia's  interest,  and  Halleck  went  with 
the  bearer  of  the  note.  The  lawyer  met  him  hos- 
pitably at  the  door  of  his  office.  "  How  do  you  do, 
sir  ?  "  he  said,  shaking  hands.  Then  he  indicated  a 
bulk  withdrawn  into  a  corner  of  the  dimly-lighted 
room ;  the  blinds  were  drawn,  and  he  locked  the  door 
after  Halleck's  entrance.  "Mr.  Hubbard,  whom  I 
think  you  know,"  he  added.  "  I  '11  just  step  into  the 
next  room,  gentlemen,  and  will  be  subject  to  your 
call  at  any  moment." 

The  bulk  lifted  itself  and  moved  some  paces  toward 
Halleck  ;  Bartley  even  raised  his  hand,  with  the  vague 
expectation  of  taking  Halleck's,  but  seeing  no  respon- 
sive gesture  on  his  part,  he  waved  a  salutation  and 
dropped  it  again  to  his  side. 

"  How  d'  ye  do,  Halleck  ?  Rather  a  secret,  black, 
and  midnight  interview,"  he  said  jocosely.  "But  I 
could  n't  very  well  manage  it  otherwise.  I  'm  not 
just  in  the  position  to  offer  you  the  freedom  of  the 
city." 

"  What  do  you  want,  Hubbard  ?  "  asked  Halleck, 
bluntly. 

"  How  is  the  old  Squire  ? " 

"  The  doctor  thinks  he  may  rally  from  the  shock." 


506  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

"Paralysis?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  have  spent  the  day  in  the  '  tall  timber/  as  oui 
friends  out  here  say,  communing  with  nature;  and 
I  've  only  just  come  into  town  since  dark, so  I  hadn't 
any  particulars."  He  paused,  as  if  expecting  that 
Halleck  might  give  them,  but  upon  his  remaining 
silent,  he  resumed.  "  Of  course,  as  the  case  now  stands, 
I  know  very  well  that  the  law  can't  touch  ine.  But 
I  did  n't  know  what  the  popular  feeling  might  be. 
The  Squire  laid  it  on  pretty  hot,  and  he  might  have 
made  it  livelier  for  me  than  he  intended:  he  isn't 
aware  of  the  inflammable  nature  of  the  material  out 
here."  He  gave  a  nervous  chuckle.  "I  wanted  to 
see  you,  Halleck,  to  tell  you  that  I  have  n't  forgotten 
that  money  I  owe  you,  and  that  I  mean  to  pay  it  all 
up,  some  time,  yet.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  some  ex- 
penses I  've  had  lately, — doctor's  bills,  and  so  forth, — 
I  have  n't  been  very  well,  myself,"  —  he  made  a  sort 
of  involuntary  appeal  for  Halleck's  sympathy,  —  "  and 
I  've  had  to  pay  out  a  good  deal  of  money,  —  I  should 
be  able  to  pay  most  of  it  now.  As  it  is,  I  can  only 
give  you  five  hundred  of  it."  He  tugged  his  porte- 
monnaie  with  difficulty  up  the  slope  of  his  panta- 
loons. "  That  will  leave  me  just  three  hundred  to 
begin  the  world  with ;  for  of  course  I  Ve  got  to  clear 
out  of  Jure.  And  I'd  got  very  comfortably  settled 
after  two  years  of  pretty  hard  work  at  the  printing 
business,  and  hard  reading  at  the  law.  Well,  it 's  all 
right.  And  I  want  to  pay  you  this  money,  now,  and 
1 11  pay  you  the  rest  whenever  I  can.  And  I  want 
you  to  tell  Marcia  that  I  did  it.  I  always  meant  to 
do  it." 

"  Hubbard,"  interrupted  Halleck,  "  you  don't  owe  me 
any  money.  Your  father-in-law  paid  that  debt  two 
years  ago.  But  you  owe  some  one  else  a  debt  that  no 
line  can  pay  for  you.  We  needn't  waste  words; 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  507 

what  are  you  going  to  do  to  repair  the  wrong  you 
have  done  the  woman  and  the  child  —  "  He  stopped  ; 
the  effort  had  perhaps  been  too  much. 

Bartley  saw  his  emotion,  and  in  his  benighted  way 
he  honored  it.  "Halleck,  you  are  a  good  fellow. 
You  are  such  a  good  fellow  that  you  can't  understand 
this  thing.  But  it 's  played  out.  I  felt  badly  about 
it  myself,  at  one  time ;  and  if  I  had  n't  been  robbed  of 
that  money  you  lent  me  on  my  way  here,  I  'd  have 
gone  back  inside  of  forty-eight  hours.  I  was  sorry 
for  Marcia ;  it  almost  broke  my  heart  to  think  of  the 
little  one;  but  I  knew  they  were  in  the  hands  of 
friends ;  and  the  more  time  I  had  to  think  it  over,  the 
more  I  was  reconciled  to  what  I  had  done.  That  was 
the  only  way  out,  for  either  of  us.  We  had  tried  it 
for  three  years,  and  we  could  n't  make  it  go ;  we  never 
could  have  made  it  go ;  we  were  incompatible.  Don't 
you  suppose  I  knew  Marcia's  good  qualities  ?  No 
one  knows  them  better,  or  appreciates  them  mora 
You  might  think  that  I  applied  for  this  divorce  because 
I  had  some  one  else  in  view.  Not  any  more  in  mine 
at  present !  But  I  thought  we  ought  to  be  free,  both 
of  us ;  and  if  our  marriage  had  become  a  chain,  that 
we  ought  to  break  it."  Bartley  paused,  apparently  to 
give  these  facts  and  reasons  time  to  sink  into  Halleck's 
mind.  "  But  there 's  one  thing  I  should  like  to  have 
you  tell  her,  Halleck :  she  was  wrong  about  that  girl ; 
I  never  had  anything  to  do  with  her.  Marcia  will 
understand."  Halleck  made  no  reply,  and  Bartley 
resumed,  in  a  burst  of  generosity,  which  marked  his 
fall  into  the  abyss  as  nothing  else  could  have  done. 
"  Look  here,  Halleck  !  /  can't  marry  again  for  two 
years.  But  as  I  understand  the  law,  Marcia  isn't 
bound  in  any  way.  I  know  that  she  always  had 
a  very  high  opinion  of  you,  and  that  she  thinks  you 
are  the  best  man  in  the  world :  why  don't  you  fix  it 
up  with  Marcia  ? " 


508  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

Bartley  was  in  effect  driven  into  exile  by  the  ac- 
cidents of  his  suit  for  divorce  which  have  been  de- 
scribed. He  was  not  in  bodily  danger  after  the  first 
excitement  passed  off,  if  he  was  ever  in  bodily  danger 
at  all;  but  he  could  not  reasonably  hope  to  estab- 
lish himself  in  a  community  which  had  witnessed 
such  disagreeable  facts  concerning  him ;  before  which 
indeed  he  stood  attainted  of  perjury,  and  only  saved 
from  the  penalty  of  his  crime  by  the  refusal  of  his 
wife  to  press  her  case. 

As  soon  as  her  father  was  strong  enough  to  be  re- 
moved, Marcia  returned  to  the  East  with  him,  in  the 
care  of  the  friends  who  continued  with  them.  They 
did  not  go  back  to  Boston,  but  went  directly  to  Equity, 
where  in  the  first  flush  of  the  young  and  jubilant  sum- 
mer they  opened  the  dim  old  house  at  the  end  of  the 
village  street,  and  resumed  their  broken  lives.  Her 
father,  with  one  side  palsy-stricken,  wavered  out  every 
morning  to  his  office,  and  sat  there  all  day,  the  tremu- 
lous shadow  of  his  former  will.  Sometimes  his  old 
friends  came  in  to  see  him ;  but  no  one  expected  now 
to  hear  the  Squire  "  get  going."  He  no  longer  got  going 
on  any  topic ;  he  had  become  as  a  little  child,  —  as 
the  little  child  that  played  about  him  there  in  the 
still,  warm  summer  days  and  built  houses  with  his  law- 
books  on  the  floor.  He  laughed  feebly  at  her  pranks, 
and  submitted  to  her  rule  with  pathetic  meekness  in 
everything  where  Marcia  had  not  charged  them  both 
to  the  contrary.  He  was  very  obedient  to  Marcia, 
who  looked  vigilantly  after  his  welfare,  and  knew  all 
his  goings  and  comings,  as  she  knew  those  of  his  little 
comrade.  Two  or  three  times  a  day  she  ran  out  to  see 
that  they  were  safe ;  but  for  the  rest  she  kept  herself 
closely  housed,  and  saw  no  one  whom  she  was  not 
forced  to  see ;  only  the  meat-man  and  the  fish-man 
could  speak  authoritatively  concerning  her  appear- 
ance and  behavior  before  folks.  They  reported  the 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  509 

latter  as  dry,  cold,  and  uncommunicative.  Doubtless 
the  bitter  experiences  of  her  life  had  wrought  their 
due  effect  in  that  passionate  heart;  but  probably  it 
was  as  much  a  morbid  sensitiveness  as  a  hardened  in- 
difference that  turned  her  from  her  kind.  The  village 
inquisitiveness  that  invades,  also  suffers  much  eccen- 
tricity ;  and  after  it  had  been  well  ascertained  that 
Marcia  was  as  queer  as  her  mother,  she  was  allowed 
to  lead  her  mother's  unmolested  life  in  the  old  house, 
which  had  always  turned  so  cold  a  shoulder  to  the 
world.  Toward  the  end  of  the  summer  the  lame 
young  man  and  his  sister,  who  had  been  several  times 
in  Equity  before,  paid  her  a  visit ;  but  stayed  only 
a  day  or  two,  as  was  accurately  known  by  persons 
who  had  noted  the  opening  and  closing  of  the  spare- 
chamber  blinds.  In  the  winter  he  came  again,  but 
this  time  he  came  alone,  and  stayed  at  the  hotel. 
He  remained  over  a  Sunday,  and  sat  in  the  pulpit  of 
the  Orthodox  church,  where  the  minister  extended  to 
him  the  right  hand  of  fellowship,  and  invited  him 
to  make  the  opening  prayer.  It  was  considered  a 
good  prayer,  generally  speaking,  but  it  was  criticised 
as  not  containing  anything  attractive  to  young  peo- 
ple. He  was  understood  to  be  on  his  way  to  take 
charge  of  a  backwoods  church  down  in  Aroostook 
County,  where  probably  his  prayers  would  be  more 
acceptable  to  the  popular  taste. 

That  winter  Squire  Gaylord  had  another  stroke  of 
paralysis,  and  late  in  the  following  spring  he  suc- 
cumbed to  a  third.  The  old  minister  who  had  once 
been  Mrs.  Gaylord's  pastor  was  now  dead ;  and  the 
Squire  was  buried  by  the  lame  man,  who  came  up  to 
Equity  for  that  purpose,  at  the  wish,  often  expressed, 
of  the  deceased.  This  at  least  was  the  common  re- 
port, and  it  is  certain  that  Halleck  officiated. 

In  entering  the  ministry  he  had  returned  to  the 
faith  which  had  been  taught  him  almost  before  he 


510  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

could  speak.  He  did  not  defend  or  justify  this  course 
on  the  part  of  a  man  who  had  once  thrown  off  all 
allegiance  to  creeds ;  he  said  simply  that  for  him  there 
was  no  other  course.  He  freely  granted  that  he 
had  not  reasoned  back  to  his  old  faith;  he  had  fled 
to  it  as  to  a  city  of  refuge.  His  unbelief  had  been 
helped,  and  he  no  longer  suffered  himself  to  doubt ; 
he  did  not  ask  if  the  truth  was  here  or  there,  any 
more;  he  only  knew  that  he  could  not  find  it  for  him- 
self, and  he  rested  in  his  inherited  belief.  He  accepted 
everything  ;  if  he  took  one  jot  or  tittle  away  from  the 
Book,  the  curse  of  doubt  was  on  him.  He  had  known 
the  terrors  of  the  law,  and  he  preached  them  to 
his  people ;  he  had  known  the  Divine  mercy,  and  he 
also  preached  that. 

The  Squire's  death  occurred  a  few  months  before 
the  news  came  of  another  event  to  which  the  press  of 
the  State  referred  with  due  recognition,  but  without 
great  fulness  of  detail.  This  was  the  fatal  case  of 
shooting — penalty  or  consequence,  as  we  choose  to 
consider  it,  of  all  that  had  gone  before  —  which  oc- 
curred at  Whited  Sepulchre,  Arizona,  where  Bartley 
Hubbard  pitched  his  tent,  and  set  up  a  printing- 
press,  after  leaving  Tecumseh.  He  began  with  the 
issue  of  a  Sunday  paper,  and  made  it  so  spicy  and  so 
indispensable  to  all  the  residents  of  Whited  Sepul- 
chre who  enjoyed  the  study  of  their  fellow-citizens' 
affairs,  that  he  was  looking  hopefully  forward  to  the 
establishment  of  a  daily  edition,  when  he  unfortu- 
nately chanced  to  comment  upon  the  domestic  rela- 
tions of  "  one  of  Whited  Sepulchre's  leading  citizens." 
The  leading  citizen  promptly  took  the  war-path,  as 
an  esteemed  contemporary  expressed  it  in  reporting 
the  difficulty  with  the  cynical  lightness  and  the 
profusion  of  felicitous  head-lines  with  which  our 
journalism  often  alleviates  the  history  of  tragic  occur- 
rences :  the  parenthetical  touch  in  the  closing  state- 


A  MODERN   INSTANCE.  511 

ment,  that  "Mr.  Hubbard  leaves  a  (divorced)  wife 
und  child  somewhere  at  the  East/'  was  quite  in  Bart- 
ley's  own  manner. 

Marcia  had  been  widowed  so  long  before  that  this 
event  could  make  no  outward  change  in  her.  What 
inner  change,  if  any,  it  wrought,  is  one  of  those  facts 
which  fiction  must  seek  in  vain  to  disclose.  But  if 
love  such  as  hers  had  been  did  not  deny  his  end  the 
pang  of  a  fresh  grief,  we  may  be  sure  that  her  sorrow 
was  not  unmixed  with  self-accusal  as  unavailing  as  it 
was  passionate,  and  perhaps  as  unjust. 

One  evening,  a  year  later,  the  Athertons  sat  talk- 
ing over  a  letter  from  Halleck,  which  Atherton  had 
brought  from  Boston  with  him :  it  was  summer,  and 
they  were  at  their  place  on  the  Beverley  shore.  It 
was  a  long  letter,  and  Atherton  had  read  parts  of  it 
several  times  already,  on  his  way  down  in  the  cars, 
and  had  since  read  it  all  to  his  wife.  "  It 's  a  very 
morbid  letter,"  he  said,  with  a  perplexed  air,  when  he 
had  finished. 

"  Yes,"  she  assented.  "  But  it 's  a  very  good  letter. 
Poor  Ben!" 

Her  husband  took  it  up  again,  and  read  here  anu 
there  a  passage  from  it. 

"  But  I  am  turning  to  you  now  for  help  in  a 
matter  on  which  my  own  conscience  throws  such  a 
fitful  and  uncertain  light  that  I  cannot  trust  it.  I 
know  that  you  are  a  good  man,  Atherton,  and  I 
humbly  beseech  you  to  let  me  have  your  judgment 
without  mercy:  though  it  slay  me,  I  will  abide  by 

it Since  her  father's  death,  she  lives  there 

quite  alone  with  her  child.  I  have  seen  her  only 
once,  but  we  write  to  each  other,  and  there  are  times 
when  it  seems  to  me  at  last  that  I  have  the  right  to 
ask  her  to  be  my  wife.  The  words  give  me  a  shock 
as  I  write  them;  and  the  things  which  I  used  to 


512  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

think  reasons  for  my  right  rise  up  in  witness  against 
me.  Above  all,  I  remember  with  horror  that  he  ap- 
proved it,  that  he  advised  it !  ....  It  is  true  that  I 
have  never,  by  word  or  deed,  suffered  her  to  know 
what  was  in  my  heart ;  but  has  there  ever  been  a 
moment  when  I  could  do  so  ?  It  is  true  that  I  hava 
waited  for  his  death ;  but  if  I  have  been  willing  he 
should  die,  am  I  not  a  potential  murderer  ? " 

"  Oh,  what  ridiculous  nonsense  ! "  Clara  indignantly 
protested. 

Atherton  read  on :  "  These  are  the  questions  which 
I  ask  myself  in  my  despair.  She  is  free,  now ;  but 
am  I  free  ?  Am  I  not  rather  bound  by  the  past  to 
perpetual  silence  ?  There  are  times  when  I  rebel 
against  these  tortures ;  when  I  feel  a  sanction  for  my 
love  of  her,  an  assurance  from  somewhere  that  it  is 
right  and  good  to  love  her ;  but  then  I  sink  again,  for  if 
I  ask  whence  this  assurance  comes  —  I  beseech  you 
to  tell  me  what  you  think.  Has  my  offence  been  so 
great  that  nothing  can  atone  for  it  ?  Must  I  sacrifice 
to  this  fear  all  my  hopes  of  what  I  could  be  to  her, 
and  for  her?" 

Atherton  folded  up  the  letter,  and  put  it  back  inio 
its*  envelope,  with  a  frown  of  exasperation.  "  I  can't 
see  what  should  have  infatuated  Halleck  with  that 
woman.  I  don't  believe  now  that  he  loves  her;  I 
believe  he  only  pities  her.  She  is  altogether  inferior 
to  him:  passionate,  narrow-minded,  jealous,  —  she 
would  make  him  miserable.  He  'd  much  better  stay 
as  he  is.  If  it  were  not  pathetic  to  have  him  deify- 
ing her  in  this  way,  it  would  be  laughable." 

"  She  had  a  jealous  temperament,"  said  Clara,  look- 
ing down.  "  But  all  the  Hallecks  are  fond  of  her. 
They  think  there  is  a  great  deal  of  good  in  her.  1 
don't  suppose  Ben  himself  thinks  she  is  perfect 
But  —  " 

"  I  dare  say,"  interrupted  her  Vsband,  "  that  he 


A  MODERN  INSTANCE.  513 

thinks  he 's  entirely  sincere  in  asking  my  advice. 
But  you  can  see  how  he  wishes  to  be  advised." 

"  Of  course.  He  wishes  to  marry  her.  It  is  n't  so 
much  a  question  of  what  a  man  ought  to  have,  as 
what  he  wants  to  have,  in  marrying,  is  it  ?  Even 
the  best  of  men.  If  she  is  exacting  and  quick-tem- 
pered, he  is  good  enough  to  get  on  with  her.  If  she 
had  a  husband  that  she  could  thoroughly  trust,  she 
would  be  easy  enough  to  get  on  with.  There  is  no 
woman  good  enough  to  get  on  with  a  bad  man.  It 's 
terrible  to  think  of  that  poor  creature  living  there  by 
herself,  with  no  one  to  look  after  her  and  her  little 
girl;  and  if  Ben — " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Clara  ?  Don't  you  see  that 
his  being  in  love  with  her  when  she  was  another 
man's  wife  is  what  he  feels  it  to  be,  —  an  indelible 
stain?" 

"  She  never  knew  it ;  and  no  one  ever  knew  it  but 
you.  You  said  it  was  our  deeds  that  judged  us. 
Did  n't  Ben  go  away  when  he  realized  his  feeling  for 
her?" 

"  He  came  back." 

"  But  he  did  everything  he  could  to  find  that  poor 
wretch,  and  he  tried  to  prevent  the  divorce.  Ben 
is  morbid  about  it;  but  there  is  no  use  in  our  be- 
ing so." 

"  There  was  a  time  when  he  would  have  been  glad 
to  profit  by  a  divorce." 

"But  he  never  did.  You  said  the  will  didn't 
count.  And  now  she  is  a  widow,  and  any  man  may 
ask  her  to  marry  him." 

"  Any  man  but  the  one  who  loved  her  during  her 
husband's  life.  That  is,  if  he  is  such  a  man  as  Hal- 
leek.  Of  course  it  is  n't  a  question  of  gross  black 
and  white,  mere  right  and  wrong ;  there  are  degrees, 
there  are  shades.  There  might  be  redemption  for 
another  sort  of  man  in  such  a  marriage  :  but  for  Hal- 

33 


514  A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 

leek  tbere  could  only  be  loss,  —  deterioration,  —  lapse 
from  the  ideal.  I  should  think  that  he  might  suffer 
something  of  this  even  in  her  eyes  —  " 

"  Oh,  how  hard  you  are !  I  wish  Ben  had  n't 
asked  your  advice.  Why,  you  are  worse  than  he  is  J 
You  're  not  going  to  write  that  to  him  ? " 

Atherton  flung  the  letter  upon  the  table,  and 
drew  a  troubled  sigh.  "Ah,  I  don't  know!  I  don'fc 
knowl* 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


NOI/3 

NOV2  1R9TO 
MAY  02 1997 


50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


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